The Spanish Heiress Gets Her Revenge

Late fifteenth-century England — a tale of grief, inheritance, the cruelty of a noble family and most importantly… revenge.

The rain had begun before dawn.

It fell in a relentless, miserable curtain against the tall windows of Beauclerk Manor, blurring the world beyond into a landscape of grey skies and sodden earth. The bare branches of the ancient oaks clawed at the heavens, while the wind swept across the fields, bending the grass and rattling the shutters of the great house. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled, its mournful notes carried upon the cold November air.

Lady Isabella Beauclerk sat motionless beside the hearth.

The fire had burned low, and though a servant had twice offered to replenish it, she had refused. She could not bear the thought of warmth. It seemed an affront, somehow, that the flames should continue to dance when her parents lay cold beneath the earth.

Her mother’s shawl rested across her lap.

It was a beautiful thing, woven of fine Spanish wool, its deep crimson threads embroidered with tiny golden flowers. Isabella pressed the fabric between her fingers, breathing in the faintest remnant of her mother’s perfume. Rosewater and orange blossom. A scent that had once filled her chambers, her mother’s dressing room, the little chapel where they prayed together each morning.

Now it lingered only in the folds of a shawl.

And soon, even that would be gone.

She had not cried at the funeral.

Not when the priest spoke of the mercy of God. Not when the coffins were lowered into the damp earth of the family crypt. Not even when the final handfuls of soil struck the polished oak lids, each dull thud sounding like the closing of a door.

She had stood between two of her father’s servants, her hands clasped so tightly that her fingers had gone numb, and watched as the last of her parents disappeared beneath the ground.

She had thought, then, that the tears would come afterward.

But they had not.

Instead, there had been a strange and terrible silence inside her. A stillness so complete that she could scarcely recognize herself within it.

She had returned to the manor and walked through its familiar corridors, past the portraits of generations of Beauclerks, past the tapestries her mother had chosen, past the great staircase where her father had once lifted her into his arms when she was a little girl.

She had entered her mother’s chambers and found them just as she had left them.

A silver comb lay upon the dressing table. A half-finished piece of embroidery rested beside the window. A book of Spanish poetry sat open upon the bed, its pages disturbed by the draft.

Isabella had stood in the doorway for a long while. She could still see her mother combing her long black hair, smiling in the mirror and then turning to her warmly. While father’s tall lean frame emerged from the depths of their large bedroom to greet her. Only recently had his gray began provide him with even more of an aristocratic air than was already visible.

She spared another to glance into the silver mirror her mother treasured. It too had come with her from Spain. As I stared into it, I could see my mothers amber eyes staring back at me. Her high cheekbones and delicate jaw, but there was my father’s sandy ash blonde hair and perfect eyebrows. I had inherited my mothers short height, not petite, but not tall and too curvy for English suitors. My bosom always spilled out of every dress ever made for me. My mother would laugh and say, “My Bella is a Spanish beauty! She will marry well!”

If only she had known… She would have forced me to marry sooner… Settle for Duke Ashworth or some other British fop… Now. Now. It was too late.

Now, she would have to go on without the two people who had loved her the most.

Then she had closed the door.

She could not bear to look back could not bear to remember more.

Now, three days after the accident, she sat in the drawing room with her mother’s shawl gathered in her lap, staring into a dying fire.

Her father was gone.

Her mother was gone.

And the world, monstrously, continued.

A gust of wind rattled the windows. Isabella flinched, and the sudden movement broke something within her.

A sob escaped her.

She pressed a hand against her mouth, but another tear followed, and then another… until she was bent forward, her shoulders trembling beneath the weight of a grief she had scarcely allowed herself to feel. Her long eyelashes now thoroughly wet with grief. She wiped the tears from her face onto the back of her hand.

“Oh, Mama,” she whispered.

The words seemed to hang in the air.

She had been nineteen years old for scarcely two months. Nineteen, and suddenly without the two people who had loved her without condition.

Her father had been a stern man, proud of his lineage and his obligations, but he had possessed a tenderness that few beyond his household had ever witnessed. He had taught her to ride, to read the accounts of the estate, to recognize the difference between a man’s title and his worth.

Her mother had taught her everything else.

She had taught Isabella to speak Spanish, to question what others accepted, to find beauty in music and poetry, and to trust the intelligence God had given her.

She had taught her that a woman’s mind was not a lesser thing merely because the world preferred her silent.

And now there was no one to remind Isabella of these things.

No one to tell her that she was loved.

A knock sounded at the door.

Isabella lifted her head, hastily wiping her cheeks with the heel of her hand.

“Enter.”

The door opened, and her father’s steward appeared.

“Forgive me, my lady. Master Edmund Harcourt has arrived.”

She stared at him.

“Harcourt?”

“Your father’s attorney, my lady. He requests an audience concerning the estate.”

For a moment, she could only look at him.

Her father’s attorney.

Of course.

There were matters to be settled. Papers to be signed. Accounts to be examined. The machinery of her father’s life would continue turning, regardless of the fact that he was no longer there to direct it.

“Show him in,” she said.

The steward bowed and withdrew.

Isabella rose, smoothing the dark folds of her mourning gown. She had barely slept since the accident, and her reflection in the window showed a face pale with exhaustion, her dark hair pinned beneath a simple veil.

She was still standing when Edmund Harcourt entered.

He was a narrow, solemn man in his late fifties, dressed in a black woolen robe, with a leather satchel tucked beneath his arm. His expression softened when he saw her.

“My lady.”

“Master Harcourt.”

He bowed deeply.

“I pray you will forgive the intrusion at so painful a time.”

“You have come on my father’s business?”

“I have, my lady.”

“Then speak plainly. I have little strength for ceremony.”

He hesitated, his eyes flickering toward the shawl in her hands.

“Very well.”

He placed his satchel upon the table and withdrew several folded documents, which he arranged with meticulous care.

“Your father’s affairs are considerable, Lady Isabella. The Beauclerck lands have been held by your family for generations, and his lordship took great pains to ensure their preservation.”

Isabella looked down at the papers.

“My father always said the estate was my home.”

“It is, my lady.”

“Then what is there to discuss?”

Harcourt drew a breath.

“Your father’s death has brought the question of succession into immediate consideration. The title, together with those lands held under the entail, must pass to the nearest eligible male heir.”

She stared at him.

“The nearest heir?”

“Lord William Beauclerk.”

The name struck her with the force of a slap.

“No.”

Harcourt lowered his gaze.

“Your ladyship—”

“No. My father has a daughter.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Then surely you cannot mean—”

“Your father’s title cannot descend to you under the terms of the entail.”

Isabella felt the room begin to tilt.

She reached for the back of a chair.

“But the house—”

“The principal estate is bound to the title, my lady. Lord William will inherit the earldom and the entailed property.”

“And I?”

Harcourt’s silence was answer enough.

Isabella stared at him, her fingers tightening around the chair.

“What becomes of me?”

“There are provisions for your maintenance, should Lord William choose to honor them. But your continued residence at Beauclerck Manor cannot be guaranteed.”

“Cannot be guaranteed?”

Her voice had risen.

“This is my home.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“My father was buried three days ago.”

“I know.”

“My mother—”

Her voice failed.

Harcourt looked genuinely distressed, but he did not withdraw the papers.

“I regret the timing of this conversation more than I can express. Yet I would be remiss in my duty if I did not make the position clear.”

Isabella turned away from him.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.