Chapter One

A Chapter by H.E.

An introduction to the main character and her current situation.

Another civil war? Isabeau wonders, glancing at the block letters on the newspaper the baker holds before his crooked nose. She would have guessed that the man had been a part of the last civil war, had it not been for the story that passed around the small township; his wife wanted a picture hung up and their ladder had a sketchy leg.
Isabeau pays for her baked goods without a word. Experience has taught her that talking to the baker before sunrise leads to a bitten off ear. Even for a nineteen-year-old girl.
There is a cart waiting outside for her, led by the old horse master’s wife, with the kitchen hand and stable boy in the back. Isabeau climbs in with a hand from the kitchen boy who smiles a moment too long to be simply ‘polite’. The cart jerks away as the horse presses forward with a noise of frustration.
This would have been a lot faster if I had just ridden a horse here, Isabeau thinks with a small frown. When was the last time I rode a horse, though? It must have been with- She shakes herself away from those thoughts, knowing that they will lead nowhere good.
Instead, she focuses on her surroundings. Once out of the township, the cart strolls along a well-worn road with grass waving along the edges. Either side of it stretches acres of farmland, sectioned off with stone and wooden fences. In the distance, Isabeau can see the sycamore trees that sway like tired children in the chilled breeze. Along the fences, countless ivy vines have taken hold and a few sheep nuzzle at the leaves.
What would this place look like if a civil war was to come through here? The thought is there before Isabeau can stop it and something dreadful catches in her throat. I will need to get the others to safety first, and find-
“You fit, miss?” The stable boy asks, leaning from his side of the cart. He has more freckles than when Isabeau first began working, and his hair has changed to a lighter blonde. His vernacular, reminiscent of how her own used to be, leaves a sour taste on her tongue.
“Perfectly fine, thank you.” Her words are delivered with a smile that remains tight despite the bashful smile on the boy’s face. Ladies smile and say thank you, not wonder how they would survive another war.
The cart rattles as they travel down the road, passing a few early risers who nod and wave sticks in way of greeting. Isabeau’s unease lessens when the cart wheels finally clatter against stone; she looks over the cart’s edge to see the small bridge over the chattering brook.
Soon enough, the cart veers from the main road to a smaller track which rattles the wooden wheels. Beneath the small canopy of bare maples, stretching out like gnarled fingers, the grey dawn sky slowly brightens. Isabeau watches the slow shift as they come to the back of the Whitmore manor. The area is closed off by a grey brick wall and it is where crates of food and large items are stored. There are servants already rushing about, collecting early orders and messages.
It is one of the footmen who helps Isabeau down from the cart before waiting for the kitchen hand, his smile growing wider at the sight of the latter. Isabeau heads inside, keeping her paper bag from the baker close to her. The entranceway is empty and Isabeau takes a quick second to sneak one of the warm rolls from it and slips it into her skirt pocket, before hanging her coat up among the others.
At the end of the hallway is the kitchen, a beast that is already awake and roaring. Through the left doorway is the servants’ dining hall and Isabeau smiles at the maid who stands with an iron in her hand and not a strand of hair out of place.
“Returned finally, have you?” the cook, an older woman with a bad back and strong hands, gripes. Her round cheeks are red, eyes strained and hair beneath her bonnet already askew.
“A dozen, as asked.” Isabeau hands the bag over and makes for the doorway.
“Hold on, there’s not a dozen here.” The cook complains loudly.
“A dozen is twelve, Miss Fisher.” Isabeau defends with an innocent quirk of her brow.
“I meant a baker’s dozen, girl.”
“Apologies, Miss. I shall remember for next time.”
“Best do.” She hears the dismissal in the cook’s words and hurries to take her leave. With the sun already in the sky, Isabeau knows that she will be late.
The pilfered roll is gone with a few bites as Isabeau makes for the staircase. It is a small blessing that she dressed in her uniform beforehand, a blue and white stripped dress with a high collar and a white, laced apron. A blessing that Isabeau is grateful for, since she has only to climb the stairs halfway. Her neat boots are not the only ones to click on the faded steps. Nurses and maids pass her without a word of greeting; busy women with better things to do than to greet nannies.
The hallway to the family’s wing is already lit when Isabeau slips through the door. The lights hum with the vigour, a valuable, continuous energy source that is golden in colour. Beneath it, the emerald carpet and patterned walls shimmer as Isabeau walks calmly and quietly past the family’s rooms. She passes Jonathan’s room, the eldest son, hoping he is not awake yet. Two doors down, she knocks.
“Sir,” she calls gently, opening the door and stepping into the dark room. “It is time to wake up.” Without waiting for a reply, Isabeau crosses the room to draw back the tall curtains, allowing the morning light to spill over the dust motes that swirl in the gentle light. She turns, heading for the next pair of curtains, when she hears the young boy groan. “A good morning, young Sir.”
“Mm,” the lump on the bed replies. With all the curtains opened, Isabeau steps towards the bed and grabs the top of the duvet. She can make out the small figure beneath and as she pulls; a mop of black hair comes into view.
“Is the young master in there?” She sing-songs, smiling at the quiet giggle that follows. Without warning, Isabeau throws back the duvet, exposing the small boy to the morning air as he squeals.
“Izzy!” James yells and curls into a ball. He fights back the smile that eventually wins over.
“There you are,” Isabeau says. “Come along, we must prepare you for the day.” It is never a chore to get young James out of bed. The boy of six years is always eager to be up and moving. It is a small blessing, Isabeau often muses.

“Ah, there’s my boy,” Sir Whitmore cheers when Isabeau and James step into the dining room. Jonathan is also seated at the table next to his Uncle Peter. Both Peter and his brother, Sir Whitmore, are rounded men with greying dark hair and facial hair. While Sir Whitmore has a neatly trimmed moustache, Uncle Peter sports a thick beard to accompany his own. Jonathan, at fifteen, barely shows any sign of facial hair, but his dark, wavy hair has been slicked neatly into place. All three of them are finely dressed despite Jonathan foregoing his jacket.
“Father!” James yells, launching himself at his father. The man is just as pleased, if not more so, to greet the boy.
“Not giving our Isabeau trouble here, are we?”
“No father,” James replies with an ardent shake of his head, black wisps of hair falling in front of his large, blue eyes.
“Glad to hear that,” his father says as he gestures for Isabeau to sit. She makes sure to sit opposite Uncle Peter; her shins still hurt from the morning she had sat opposite Johnathan. “What are your plans?” Sir Whitmore addresses Isabeau with dark, unwavering eyes. A soldier he once was and that life has never truly left him; no matter how gentle he may sometimes be.
“I believe we are starting with piano lessons, Sir. Then James will see his governess and then perhaps, if the weather is permitting, we shall spend some time outside.” The response Isabeau earns is a pleased hum before the man turns to his brother; trying to decide if they should continue using the transport company, owned by one of the Councilmen.
Across from his brother, Jonathan looks from Isabeau to his plate, something mischievous in his eyes. She is busy wiping porridge from James’ chin before it drips to his shirt, when Jonathan finally acts. He reaches over, aiming for the salt shaker, then flicks his wrist to knock over Isabeau’s glass of juice.
Her reaction is quick. One moment, she is holding a napkin to James’ face, the next, her fingertips rest underneath the rim of the glass. No juice is spilt. All eyes turn to her, stunned by the speed at which she moved. James, however, claps.
“That was magic,” he says with a broad smile, still clapping as Isabeau rights the glass.
“What was that about?” Sir Whitmore asks, his tone demanding an answer. Isabeau does not look at Jonathan, knowing that he is already looking at her with a plausible defence.
“I must have tugged the table cloth,” Isabeau explains, keeping her face neutral and her voice even. “Apologies Sir, I will be more careful next time.”
“See that you are.” The moment passes and soon, breakfast carries on as if nothing happened. Except for the smug twitch of Jonathan’s mouth when Isabeau glances at the elder brother. She cannot do anything and he knows that.
But there are many other things that Johnathan is unaware of that she can do.

The few hours that James is with his governess are also the few hours Isabeau has to herself. She takes to the garden; walking down towards the brook with the oak trees standing guard on the other side. The newspaper that the cook offered remains rolled as she settles down. The headlines are all the same these days; rebels, a united front, the Premier and her Council. Words Isabeau read as a child.
Beneath her hands, the grass is soft and Isabeau resists the urge to kick off her shoes. But in this world, ladies keep their shoes on. They are polite and demure while the men are charming and sophisticated. It helps to be quiet so Isabeau can fade into the background. Even with the tremors of another civil war brewing in the cities, here in the countryside, no such horrors have caught on. Just as she had hoped.
It is not the gentle breeze of a fine day that brings a shiver to Isabeau’s spine. Her first instinct is to look about her, alert like a startled cat. But it is the memory of a lesson that has her relaxing. Without moving her head from where it faces trees across the stream, she scans the scenery; devoid of other people. There is only the gardener and his dog who stand by the hedges to her right. He holds the shears with gloves too big and mechanical ease; she thinks he has worked here since childhood.
Before she can look to her left, Isabeau hears someone approaching. Their footsteps are too quiet and careful. Isabeau drops her arms as casually as possible before straightening her back. The footsteps pause. Her fists clench as she readies herself. There is a small rustle before the person moves and Isabeau reacts when she hears the other shout.
“Surprise!” James yells as he lands heavily against her back. It takes a shocking amount of control for her not to throw the small boy over her shoulder. She remains frozen for a moment, deathly still, until her fists unfurl. James is already gloating about his scaring prowess when Isabeau finally returns her focus.
“See Izzy? I’ve gotten a lot better,” he says with a triumphant smile, all teeth and gums.
“That you have, young sir.” She responds with a wan smile. “But I have told you not to do that to me.”
“But everyone else gets angry,” he replies, pouting.
“Yes, but I have explained this before. No scaring me.” She once told him that she has been scared by her brothers as a child and had learned to fight back. It is not an entire lie, but it is not the entire truth either. “It would be terrible if I hurt you.”
James nods as he scuffs his shoes along the grass. There is that puppy dog look he uses against his parents and other household staff on his face. Isabeau, much to the young boy’s chagrin, remains immune.
“Fine,” he concedes before dropping down next to her.
“Are you not supposed to be with your governess right now?”
“Maybe.” Isabeau sighs, knowing that she will be the one being lectured later.
“James-”
“She was being really grumpy today!” The young boy whines, rolling on the grass and getting green stains of his shirt. “She kept calling Izzy a riff-raff. What’s a riff-raff?” It comes as no surprise that Mrs Lowe has been complaining about Isabeau again. The old trout maintains a strong belief that Isabeau has been trying to corrupt the young master.
Foolish and close-minded, Isabeau thinks.
“A disreputable person, perhaps even a troublemaker.”
“But Izzy isn’t a troublemaker.”
“You’re right,” she says with a smile. “The trouble maker would be you, young Sir.” Instead of arguing, James nods delightedly, the way only a child could. “Well,” she begins, standing up and dusting off her skirt. “Shall we make use of the weather and go on an adventure?”
“Adventure?” In an instant, James rolls to his feet and wraps his small hands around Isabeau’s. “Let’s go to the forest again, Izzy!”
“As long as you don’t climb any more trees.” The young boy starts to frown but he stops suddenly to point off towards the farm.
“Look Izzy,” he says. “That man was here yesterday too.”
“Which man?”
“The one with the hat.” Isabeau pauses, straining her eyes. The fact that the man is leaning against the shed wall and not working gives him away. He is exceedingly tall with broad shoulders. His clothes are simply: grey pants, white shirt and a brown jacket. He would be hard to miss in a crowd. She tries to discern his face but is unable to as he quickly pushes off the wall and stalks away. “He was here yesterday, Izzy.” James repeats, tugging on her arm.
“I see.” Her reply is quiet and it irks James.
“What’s wrong?” There is a tone of worry in the boy’s voice which shakes Isabeau from her thoughts.
“Nothing at all,” Isabeau states with a warm smile. “But I think it will be best that I return you to Mrs Lowe.” Barely have the words left her mouth before James starts complaining. He swings on her arm; almost pulling her down onto the grass. With a roll of her eyes, Isabeau lifts the young boy up onto her hip. “Come now, if you behave, I’ll see what I can do about securing us a bowl of sweets,” she says.
The complaining stops immediately.

Once James is back with Mrs Lowe, with a disgusted huff from the governess, Isabeau heads outside once more with the farm as her destination. It is risky going after a stranger in times of chaos, but it does not deter Isabeau in the slightest. The stone path crunches beneath her boots as the horses whinny and the pigs grunt. She tries to ground herself to the world around her while the Remington model tucked in her skirt beneath her apron burns open old wounds and dying memories. With a bite to her lip, Isabeau does her best to repress them. Thankfully, she is wrenched back to reality with a heavy, calloused hand on her shoulder. The taste of copper is discomforting, unfortunately.
“Excuse me, Miss,” a familiar voice says. Isabeau turns to see the farmer, an aged man with yams for fingers and a smile like a broken fence. “You alright there? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Quite alright, Mr Aitken,” she replies, composing herself. “I was looking for someone.”
“Wouldn’t happen to be that tall fella who was ‘round earlier?” Isabeau’s lingering panic subsides.
“Yes, is he still around?” The farmer shakes his head with a sorry smile.
“No, he seemed in a hurry to be off today. But he hung ‘round a good hour yesterday. He wouldn’t happen to be someone you’re sweet on, would he?” Mr Aitken asks, leaning in with a knowing gleam in his eye.
“No, he is not.” She answers. The man laughs and claps her on the back.
“Don’t worry your pretty head, young miss. I won’t tell anyone. Oh, here, I almost forgot.” He rummages into his pants pocket and pulls out a crumpled letter. There is dirt along the edges and a significant crease, but the seal remains intact. “That fella left this for you.”
“Thank you,” she replies, taking the letter and placing it, gently, inside the pocket of her apron. “What is all that for?” Isabeau regards the boxes stacked in the middle of the doorway with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, those?” The farmer walks over to the boxes and pats one of them like an old friend. “These are for the dinner the Lord is having tonight. Her Ladyship wanted the new drapes hung up in the dining room. Guess I’d best get on to it.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Isabeau says and curtsies before leaving; but not before the farmer gives her a hearty bow. She hears him laughing to himself as she walks away.
Isabeau makes for the kitchen. It is busy enough that she will not be noticed easily. The cook yells at her kitchen hand to hurry up with all four jobs the poor girl is tasked with. Other staff bring in ingredients while others move plates and cutlery. All the while, Isabeau stands next to the fireplace by the dining table. She takes the note out and reads it twice before discarding it in the flames.
“Mrs Munroe?” Isabeau calls to the busy woman across the room. The head housemaid a silvered haired woman with a straight back and smile lines on her withered face.
“What is it?” The older woman sighs, looking up from her newspaper with no patience in her glare
“The young master is with his governess,” she begins, trying for a small smile that appears innocent enough. “I was wondering if it would be alright for me to venture into town for an hour or so.” Mrs Munroe stares at Isabeau; trying to discern a hidden motive. But then the cook is swearing to commit murder and the old woman sighs again.
“Alright. Be off with you. But do not take your time either. If I have that heathen Lowe down here, you will be in the cells with me.”
“Of course, Mrs Munroe,” she answers with a quick curtsy. Isabeau trades her apron for her black coat before she leaves, sending a sympathetic look to the kitchen hand who is up to her elbows in flour.