Chapter 10: Just the Beginning

Isolde was destined for a life of adoration, yet she became an orphan forgotten by all. “Take me back to Windermount,” Isolde said, her face pale, turning toward him. “I’m perfectly fine in Windermount.”

“Don’t be absurd. I would never send you back there,” replied Geoffrey, his tone strained. For years, he had resented her, but now, seeing her face—so much like her mother’s without the mask of powder—his anger ebbed. Her last words before she collapsed had cut through him like a blade.

Tears spilled from Isolde’s eyes. “In Windermount, I kept chickens, goats, thirteen cows, and five grand horses. There was Helena, the wet nurse, the flowers, my garden, fields of wheat and barley. I could ride, fence, drink… I loved the manor. Leaving broke my heart. But then the butler came. He said you missed me, that you wanted me near because you were growing old…”

She had meant to feign emotion, yet found herself baring the truth. It had always been this way, even in her past life. She had never let go of the bond with her father. Otherwise, she would not have been so easily swayed in her last life by Matilda and Mary, who promised that pleasing him was the way to win his love. Especially now—especially as someone who had once been a mother herself.

A quiet sigh slipped from her lips as her gaze wandered to the patterns on the canopy above. “I returned… only to realize the steward lied.” The words were biting, but beneath the bitterness lay an unshakable sorrow. Geoffrey was shaken but kept his face stoic. Only moments ago, he had stood outside her door, listening to her anguished cries in her nightmares. He had never known…

“I’ve sent the Marshal of Brackenfell to the palace,” he said, his voice firm. “The royal physician will provide medicine for your injuries. As for Helena’s claim that Mary poisoned you, I will see to it personally.”

Isolde lay still, her expression blank, as though none of it mattered. For the first time, she caught a flicker of pity in her father’s eyes—something she had never seen in her previous life. But if family love was earned only through agony and schemes, she wanted no part of it.

She closed her eyes, catching the faintest sigh from him. “Who taught you to fight?” Geoffrey asked after a pause.

Isolde did not answer. She couldn’t afford to. Her silence and anger would only deepen his guilt, ensuring he saw her as the victim in this charade. If he declared in court that Mary had poisoned her, the matter would be resolved. Mary’s execution would be more than justice; it would establish dominance, vent her frustration, and declare open war.

Small skirmishes never inspired fear; they only emboldened enemies. A swift, ruthless blow was what she needed.

After a long silence, she heard him rise and leave. Isolde opened her eyes, weariness clouding them. She was never one for cunning plans. In Windermount, she believed most conflicts could be settled with a sword. She could have bested Milton, but she was forced to feign weakness. If I had even a single ally in this household, would I have been pushed to such desperate measures?

At first, she only intended to implicate Milton in the poisoning. But his sudden return with Oliver made the plot too intricate. Frustrated, she resorted to self-inflicted injury to divide the two men. Memories of past and present tangled in her mind, stirring hatred so deep her vision blurred. Blood rose in her throat; she coughed it out and slipped into unconsciousness again.

When she woke, a faint sweetness lingered on her tongue. She opened her eyes to find Helena’s worried face hovering above her. “Miss, you’re awake!” Helena exclaimed with evident relief. A shadow fell over Isolde Langley. She glanced up and met the cold, stern features of Oliver.

She looked up and saw Oliver Valois’s slightly cold face. “How do you feel?” he asked, his voice as flat as his expression.

“Much better,” Isolde replied, a faint, composed smile playing on her lips as she regarded his icy demeanor. “I heard you went to the palace to request the Consumption Pills for me. I’m grateful.” The Consumption Pills were a famed court remedy, rumored to have been personally crafted by the Queen Mother herself.

“You are my godfather’s benefactor. It was my duty,” Oliver replied, his tone detached.

Isolde gave a slight nod and motioned for Helena to help her sit up. Oliver offered a polite bow, his unreadable eyes as deep as a still lake. “Since you’re well, I’ll take my leave.” Without another word, he turned and left.

As he strode away, his thoughts lingered on what he had seen earlier. Before Milton struck, Isolde had deliberately feinted, baiting him into revealing his full strength. She had allowed herself to be hit—calculated, intentional, cunning. Whatever her reasons, her ability to strategize was unmistakable. Oliver, however, hated such machinations. He had no patience for court intrigues or women who thrived on scheming.

Watching his broad figure disappear beyond the curtain, Isolde exhaled softly, then turned to Helena. “What’s happening outside?”

Helena placed a soft cushion behind her back before answering. “After you fainted, the Duke was furious. He launched an investigation into the poisoning and summoned a physician to examine the food.” She paused, then added, “It was confirmed that Heartbreak Grass extract had been used. Mary’s body was discarded, and the Madam was harshly rebuked. Miss, we’ve won.”

A cold smile flickered across Isolde’s face. “Won? Not yet.”

Helena’s momentary relief gave way to concern. “But the Madam won’t dare trouble you anymore. The Duke has even arranged for new servants to care for the Pearl Tower. With Mary gone, her bullying is over.”

“Mary?” Isolde’s tone dripped with disdain. “She was just a pawn of Matilda. There are plenty more like her in their ranks.”

Helena’s expression tightened. “What should we do then?”

A chill settled in Isolde’s gaze. “We’ll take them down—patiently, one by one.”

Matilda still had a formidable ally in the household, Prudence Blackwell, her grandmother. Matilda’s rise from concubine to wife had been supported not only by her maiden family’s newfound prominence but also by her grandmother’s influence. Prudence, currently residing in Caelmont with her youngest son, was expected to return soon, bringing Isolde’s second uncle and aunt with her. In Isolde’s past life, their arrival had marked the beginning of her true suffering.

Back then, she had been a naive country girl, blind to the power play within the estate and the malice of human hearts. Overjoyed to have family at last, she had foolishly handed over her late mother’s dowry without hesitation.

Helena sighed. “Miss, you’re far more beautiful than your cousin. And the Duke’s Estate is far more distinguished than the Marshal’s. I can’t understand why the Marquis of Eldermere prefers your cousin over you.”

Isolde let out a soft, bitter laugh. Of course, she understood. In their eyes, she was nothing but a rustic girl. Even her father looked down on her. And though the Duke’s Estate carried an illustrious title, it had been granted for her father’s early military achievements—not a hereditary position. It lacked wealth and influence. Her father’s declining career and his political missteps had left him with few allies. Compared to the influential and prosperous Blackwell family, her family was a shadow of its former glory.

And before her time travel, her mother-in-law—a woman who judged everything by rank and fortune—had always looked down on her. To that woman, Isolde, the third heiress of the Duke’s Estate, was barely worth acknowledging.