For once silence was allowed to take hold of them all. Both the dukeand the duchess were pale. The duke’s pallor could well be simpledispleasure; the duchess’s was fear.
How many mothers, Beth wondered, were living with fear as the darkshadow of war crept once more over Europe and sons decided they must jointhe fight?
When the duchess looked up and their eyes met, Beth sent her a look ofcompassion, and the duchess smiled back. It was the first moment of trueunderstanding Beth had experienced since coming to Belcraven. She found itstrangely frightening. Perhaps it was the first tentative feeling ofbelonging, and that was what troubled her.
Beth found herself increasingly fond of the duchess’s company. The ladywas clever, witty, and kind. One day, as they sat in ladylike occupationembroidering a new frontal for the chapel, the duchess ventured a mildcriticism. “Elizabeth, my dear.. . . Our story, for the curious, is thatyou and Lucien are madly in love. It would help the fabrication if youwere to spend more time together.”
Beth kept her eyes on her stitches. “I suppose that is true. YourGrace. The marquess, however, shows no inclination to spend time in mycompany.”
“Do you wish that he would spend more time with you?”
Beth looked up. “Not particularly.”
The duchess frowned slightly. “Elizabeth, are you perhaps, as they say,cutting off your nose to spite your face? What more could you want in ahusband than Lucien? He is handsome. He can be delightfully charming.”
“I do not care if my husband be handsome or not, Your Grace,” Bethreplied, “and if Lord Arden is charming, he has not been so to me. I findhim cold and arrogant.” But then she had to admit to herself that he hadnot been so until she had said those terrible things.
“It is not really like him, my dear,” said the duchess. “He does notlike this situation any more than you. But someone has to give a little.Could you not make the first approach?”
Beth had tried that. She shuddered. “No.”
The duchess sighed. “I will speak to Lucien then.” If she did so, ithad no effect.
Apart from the problem of the marquess, Beth became somewhat reconciledto life at Belcraven. She grew accustomed to the scale of the great housewith an ease which surprised her and could soon find her way to all theprinciple rooms unaided. She could not deny that she obtained enjoymentfrom the beauty of the spacious chambers, the exquisite moldings anddecorations, and the priceless works of art. Who could complain, beingable to sit in private contemplation of a Rafael Madonna, a Van Dykeportrait, or a landscape of merry Breughel villagers? Who could be totallyunhappy in a marvelously well-stocked library?
This lofty, magnificent room with its two tiers of gilded,glass-fronted shelves became Beth’s primary haunt. Here were all theclassics and many newer and exciting works. It soon became known that ifMiss Armitage were needed, one need look no farther than one of the threedeep window embrasures in the library.
Nor did Beth often have to share the room with the Reverend Steep.Though he held the position of librarian, his passionate interest was themuniment room and the family archives. Only if his researches required itdid he invade Beth’s territory.
She encountered a different invader one day, however. She was sittingcurled up on the brown velvet window seat when clipped footsteps causedher to peer around the curtains.
“Good morning, Mr. Westall,” she said cheerfully, always pleased to seethe pleasant young man.
He turned with an open smile. “And to you, Miss Armitage. I should haveknown I’d find you here. I don’t suppose I can prevail upon you to assistme, can I?”
Beth willingly laid down the entrancing adventures of Sir JohnMandeville. “Of course. What is it you require?”
“The duke is interesting himself in a new invention by a Mr.Stephenson. It is a traveling machine, a locomotive which is driven bysteam. He believes there is an article on a similar subject by a mancalled Trevithick, but,” he added with a twinkle, “he cannot recollect inwhat journal it was published.”
Beth chuckled in sympathy. “It cannot be so very long ago, though,” shesaid, “for I surely heard of Mr. Trevithick not ten years since.”
“Less than that, I believe. Where shall we start?”
Beth thought for a moment. “Well, I haven’t seen any purely technicalcollections here, such as those put out by the Royal Society. Haveyou?”
“Indeed no. I cannot say the duke has shown much interest inengineering before now. Now, however, he says he is resigned to suchengines being the key to the future and is determined to understandthem.”
“I think either theAnnual Registeror theMonthly Magazinethen. There are complete collections of both.Which do you choose?”
With a shrug the young man said, “TheAnnual Register.”Then he looked at Beth suspiciously. “Now whyare you looking triumphant, Miss Armitage?”
“Why,” said Beth saucily, “because theMonthly Magazinehas an index, sir, while theAnnual Registerhas merely a list of contents.”
They were both laughing over this when the marquess walked in. His eyesnarrowed. If he had hackles, Beth thought, they would have risen. She knewshe was blushing guiltily when there was absolutely nothing about which tobe guilty.
He nodded coolly at the secretary. “Westall.”
Mr. Westall made a more substantial inclination, “My lord.” He quicklyretreated to the other end of the room to begin his search.
