Beth glances across the track as a cackle splits the rowdy atmosphere. She’d know that laugh anywhere. It’s Gwen, gloating at Mr. Mason for something while Lord Havenfort eggs her on. Incorrigible, the two of them.
“I’m sure there’s a young lad here who would find her charming. A man could do with a wife who enjoys a good sport.”
Beth glances at the couple and finds the woman glaring down into her wine. Her husband tips back his beer. She hears Gwen laugh again and looks over to find her waving something under Mr. Mason’s nose as Meredith tries to snatch it back.
Theyaremaking rather a spectacle of themselves, though she supposes the man beside her isn’t wrong. Today isn’t a day for staid conversation and appearance, unless you’re on her side of the track, here to see and be seen. The inner lawn is for fun and cheering and betting with abandon. And though the ton might look down their noses at anyone who didn’t managean invitation to the royal lawn enclosure, Beth thinks those on the other side made the better choice.
“Of course the act shouldn’t go to the floor,” Mother says, dragging Beth’s gaze from Gwen’s bright face.
She turns and finds Lord Ashmond standing on Mother’s other side, his wife crammed between them, her skirt and Mother’s knocking enough to set Beth tilting. She grabs the railing in front of her and takes a too-large sip of her champagne. But of course no one’s paying her any attention.
“The very idea that it’s gotten this far is abhorrent,” Lady Ashmond says.
“We’ll find a way to reverse it if Havenfort and his ilk manage to pass it through,” Lord Ashmond says, his boom of a voice grating even amongst all the others.
“I thought Lord Havenfort all but had it locked down,” Mother says, and Beth can tell by the hold of her jaw that she’s trying not to let her true colors show.
This must be about the Matrimonial Causes Act, again. It’s all anyone talks of these days. Even Lord Montson’s friends were lamenting its imminent passage, like the act isn’t there to protect women from monsters and marital brutes. How must they treat their fiancées behind closed doors if they’re so worried they’ll be able to convince a court of abuse?
“There’s still a few weeks until the vote, more than enough time to find the right palms and make the right exchanges,” Lord Ashmond says firmly, as if all Lord Havenfort’s machinations and work might be waved away with enough money.
Beth hopes not. If Mother could have petitioned a civil court—left her father—
“That’s something then,” Mother says tightly.
“I’ll be bringing Harry into the final rounds as well, train him up. We’ve got to keep the party going, and our children are the future, aren’t they?”
“Of course,” Mother says.
“Your Elizabeth would never—” Lady Ashmond begins.
“My Beth will be an excellent wife and your son an excellent husband, so the matter need never be discussed,” Mother says firmly.
Lady Ashmond nods and Lord Ashmond turns to a gentleman on his left to continue the conversation, leaving Beth and Mother alone, pushed up against the railing.
“Are they all afraid their wives will divorce them given the chance? Doesn’t say much for their marriages,” Beth mutters as Mother sidles as close as she can.
“Change makes most people nervous,” Mother says, taking her own overlarge gulp of champagne. “And this isn’t polite talk.”
“But it is when the earl does it?”
“Hush,” Mother says, shaking her head and looking across the track.
They’re starting to line up the horses. At least there will be some excitement soon. There ought to be, after two hours in this infernal heat and press of bodies.
“Does it bother you?” Beth asks, tracking Mother’s gaze across to Lord Havenfort, who looks not at all concerned that his plans may come crashing down.
“Does what bother me?” Mother asks, sounding lofty. It falls a bit flat, with the clear exhaustion at the edge of her voice.
“Pretending.”
“Not now,” Mother mutters.
“Does it?” Beth presses. “You can’t really support that infernal position.”
“You know I don’t,” Mother hisses, leaning close under the guise of fixing a lock of Beth’s sweaty hair. “But this is neither the time nor the place. We’re here to drink, smile, and be seen. You can seethe and rail later.”
Beth purses her lips. She’s tired of being cosseted and patronized, like her discomfort is an aberration when she knows Mother is equally uncomfortable, in this box, in this life, with these people.
