A Lady for Highmere

Isabelle's POV

I have always preferred the library when the house grows loud.

Not because I dislike my family. I don't.

There is simply a particular kind of peace that settles over the library that I cannot find anywhere else in Whitmore House. The walls are lined with shelves from floor to ceiling, filled with books gathered by generations of Whitmores. Some are so old that their bindings have faded almost completely, while others still carry the sharp scent of fresh ink.

I like them all.

I like the feeling of opening a book and knowing that, for the next few hours, no one expects anything from me.

This afternoon, I sit in my usual chair beside the tall window, one foot tucked beneath me, a book resting open across my lap.

Outside, the gardens are bright beneath the afternoon sun. I can see one of the gardeners trimming the rose bushes and hear the faint clatter of someone moving crates across the courtyard.

Inside, there is only the soft turning of pages.

I reach the end of a chapter and pause.

The book is about the history of neighbouring kingdoms, though I suspect most of my friends would find it terribly dull. I don't.

There is something fascinating about the way decisions made by one person can change the lives of hundreds of others. A boundary moved here. A marriage arranged there. A debt forgiven. A piece of land inherited.

Everything seems connected when you look closely enough.

Perhaps that is why I like reading.

Books make the world feel as though it can be understood.

People are much harder.

A burst of laughter carries through the corridor outside.

I glance toward the door.

I can already tell from the voices that my brothers are home.

Richard's voice is the loudest, followed by Thomas's. Henry's laughter joins theirs a moment later.

I smile despite myself.

Whitmore House is rarely quiet for long.

My brothers have always managed to fill every room they enter, whether anyone invited them to or not.

I lower my gaze to my book again.

For another few minutes, I pretend I cannot hear them.

It works until the door opens.

"Isabelle."

I look up to find Mabel standing in the doorway.

She gives me the familiar look she has perfected over the years, the one that says she has already told me what she needs to say and expects me to listen.

"Your mother wants you."

I close my book around one finger to keep my place.

"Now?"

"Now."

I sigh.

Mabel's mouth twitches.

"You knew this was coming."

"I was hoping you were mistaken."

"I rarely am."

She disappears down the corridor before I can argue.

I look at the book in my lap.

Then at the door.

Then back at the book.

The book wins for another few seconds.

Eventually, I close it properly.

I run my fingers over the cover before setting it on the small table beside my chair.

"Tomorrow," I murmur.

It is a promise I make often.

I always intend to keep it.

As I leave the library, the sounds of the house grow louder.

Someone is calling for a servant downstairs. Footsteps hurry across the hall. Richard laughs again, and Thomas says something I cannot quite make out.

I know these sounds.

I have known them all my life.

Whitmore House has never been merely a house to me. It is the place where I learned to read, where I took my first steps, where I learned which floorboards creak and which doors stick in damp weather.

I know which window catches the morning sun.

I know which staircase my father prefers.

I know that Mother likes the dining room curtains open during breakfast but closed during supper.

I know where Eleanor used to leave her ribbons before she married and moved into her own household.

I know which cabinet holds the good tea.

I know where my father keeps the household accounts.

I know almost every corner of this place.

And perhaps that is why, as I walk toward my mother's sitting room, I have the strange feeling that I am beginning to know it too well.

There are days when I wonder what exists beyond these walls.

Not because I want to leave.

At least, I don't think I do.

I simply wonder.

What would it be like to wake somewhere I don't already know?

To walk into a room without knowing who had stood there before me?

To open a door and have no idea what is waiting on the other side?

The thoughts are quickly followed by a strange little guilt.

There is nothing wrong with my life.

I have a comfortable home.

A family who cares for me.

More books than I could possibly read in a lifetime.

I have been taught everything a young woman of my position ought to know.

I have never gone without anything important.

So why, sometimes, does it feel as though something is missing?

I don't have an answer.

Perhaps I am simply restless.

Perhaps it is because I spend too much time in books and have started expecting life to feel as interesting as they do.

I reach the sitting room and straighten my dress before knocking.

"Come in."

I open the door.

Mother looks up from the papers in front of her.

"There you are."

"I was in the library."

"I assumed as much."

There is no disapproval in her voice. If anything, there is amusement.

I step inside and take the seat across from her.

For a moment, I glance at the papers.

Household matters, most likely.

There is always something to manage in a house like ours.

Mother studies me.

"What?"

"Nothing."

I narrow my eyes.

She smiles.

"You always look suspicious when someone tells you nothing."

"Because it usually means there is something."

She laughs softly.

I smile.

For a moment, everything feels exactly as it always has.

Familiar.

Safe.

Predictable.

And perhaps that is what unsettles me.

Because lately, predictability has begun to feel less like comfort and more like a question.

I don't know what is waiting for me beyond the life I have always known.

I only know that, for the first time, I have started wondering whether there mi

ght be something more.

I am not ready to admit that aloud.

So I sit quietly across from my mother and let the familiar sounds of Whitmore House surround me.

For now, I am still here.

For now, nothing has changed.