Bea woke early, restless and discontented. Even the weather was downcast that morning, for rain fell steadily, blurring the panes so that the view from the windows was reduced to muted shades of brown and green, with no distinguishing features. She paced about her room until Harper came to dress her, and then went down to breakfast with her parents.
Her stepmother was deep in conversation with the duchess for the whole meal. The gentlemen rose to leave one by one, her father amongst them, and other ladies came and went, but the two remained side by side, their voices a low murmur. From what Bea could hear, it was all domestic matters — sheets and coals and the dinner, and something about musicians. That was promising! Perhaps there would be dancing.
“Mama, shall I—?”
“Oh!” Her stepmother looked up, startled. “Are you still here, Beatrice? I shall be occupied with her grace for some time yet. You can find something with which to occupy yourself, I am sure. Your tapestry, perhaps.”
“Might I take some exercise in the Long Gallery, Mama?”
“An excellent idea, but do not overtire yourself. The other ladies will be in the saloon when you have finished.”
Eagerly she rose, and, knowing now how to find her way about, made her way to the gallery. It was rather a beautiful room, she decided, divided into three by sets of elegant pillars and with a prettily decorated ceiling. Without the glorious afternoon sun, the room was less magical but it was easier to admire the little lacquered cabinets and Chinese vases that were dotted about. In front of the hearth was an intricately carved wooden fire screen and a dusty harp stood forlornly in a corner.
She had made four circuits and was about to begin a fifth when a burst of male laughter drew her notice. Where had that come from? The eastern end of the gallery, she thought. With hasty steps, she made her way there but all was quiet again… no,she could dimly discern a voice, just one this time. But another burst of laughter told the story — the noise emanated from behind the door at the furthest end of the gallery.
Creeping nearer, she tentatively turned the knob. It squeaked violently, but another burst of noise concealed it. She pushed, it opened, and immediately the noise was all around her. Or rather,belowher, for she was in a little gallery above the chapel. Tiptoeing further in, she could look down on the rows of chairs and the tops of the men’s heads. They were facing forwards, towards where the altar should be, where Mr Fielding was declaiming with great spirit — in Latin. Now and then, someone from the audience would make a remark, also in Latin, and the crowd would laugh or jeer or murmur approving noises. And sometimes Mr Fielding would say something which brought on the laughter.
And oh, what fun it looked! How she longed to know what they were saying, and why it was funny or sometimes not funny at all. Occasionally she caught a familiar word —‘Caesar’was mentioned several times, and she knew all about him! Or rather, them, for were there not several Caesars? And quite a few words sounded like they had come from one of her Italian songs. Not that she knew any Italian, for Mama had made her learn the songs by rote, but she recognised the words, even if she had no idea what they meant.
There were several dusty chairs in the little gallery, so she cleaned one with her handkerchief and sat down to listen, mesmerised, as the ancient words rolled about in the air. Very foreign to her ears, but some of the gentlemen put a lilt to them that reminded her of the Italian singers she had heard perform in London or, once, at Marshfields. The signora had stayed for several days, performing each evening but eating with the family, and her accent, even when she spoke English, had had just that cadence. No, that was not quite right. Some of thewords sounded vaguely familiar, but the rhythm was different. It was intriguing! How she wished she understood it.
One voice rose above the others, authoritative and commanding, so that the room fell silent. Bertram! He started to speak… no, torecite,for it was clearly poetry of some sort, even she could tell that from the rhythm and tone. But oh, such beautiful poetry! The words rose from his lips and filled the air with a kind of music, weaving itself around the pillars that fringed the chapel and over the heads of his silent audience, rising to enfold Bea in its majesty. Such power in his voice! Such glorious balladry that held her transfixed and enchanted.
Eventually the recitation came to an end, and the audience erupted in cheers and foot-stamping, and many cries of appreciation. Amongst the rattle of words, she caught a familiar one —‘Horatius’.Horace! The very man whose writings she had been reading, although not like this… nothing like this! The translation, however elegantly worded, could surely not compete with the unearthly beauty of the Latin.
The gentlemen settled down, and Mr Fielding began to speak again, although now he was reading from papers, and it sounded dull by comparison with Bertram’s melodious cadences. The audience was quieter, listening attentively, she supposed, for every now and then there was a low murmur of approval, but nothing more.
She began to lose interest, and after a while, since nothing more exciting offered in the chapel, she crept away and set off to explore the rest of the house.
11: Rumour And Supposition
Bertram was enjoying himself hugely. For several hours each day, he was immersed in the world of several thousand years ago, speaking and thinking and even dreaming in Latin, his head filled with the vivid imagery of the Roman poets. When he was forced back into the modern world by the presence of the ladies, he no longer resented the intrusion, as he had in previous years, for he had a serious project to occupy him, that of finding a titled husband for Bea.
By the middle of each afternoon, when the gentlemen had wearied of Cicero, Tacitus and Ovid, and even Fielding’s obsession with the Caesars had receded marginally, they joined the ladies in the saloon, followed by gentle rides about the estate or walks in the overgrown garden on fine days, or parlour games and general conversation otherwise. Bertram generally sought out Bea and his friends, and watched as she exerted her charms on them. Not that she flirted — Bea was not that kind of girl. But she was lively and vibrant andfun.She had them all laughing, and she never flagged, her high spirits carrying them throughdinner and then cards afterwards, until Lady Esther came to take her away.
“Time for us to retire, Beatrice,” she would say.
Then Bea would look up, startled. “So soon? But I am enjoying myself so much.”
Bertram could see his friends melt under such delightful treatment. Brockscombe had been willing to be beguiled from the start, but even Medhurst’s eyes drifted less often towards the beautiful Miss Grayling. As for Fielding, he was already more than half way to being in love with her. And amusingly, Lady Esther clearly still supposed that Bea was chasing Bertram, for she smiled benignly on him whenever he was with Bea.
Bertram himself was not at first a target for any of the young ladies. He said nothing of the changed circumstances of his family, which might see him inherit an earldom one day, so at first he remained merely the heir to a modest estate. With so many titles and scions of wealthy families at Landerby Manor, and one who would be a duke in the fullness of time, a man worth no more than three thousand pounds a year was of little interest.
After a few days, however, he became aware of a change in their manner towards him. None of them were as open as Bea about their intentions, for they were as subtle and scheming as snakes, and their behaviour towards him did not visibly alter. Yet somehow they contrived to draw him into their toils. Miss Hutchison loitered near him as dinner was announced so that he would be obliged to escort her in. Miss Grayling invited him to make up a four for whist, and since she already had two other players organised, she effectively excluded Bea. Amusingly, Lady Esther sank that promising scheme by requesting the duchess, one of Miss Grayling’s four, to join her own table. The duchess, no doubt entirely in Lady Esther’s confidence regarding herhopes for Bertram, rose at once and called upon Bea to take her place.
It was Miss Hutchison who asked Bertram directly, wriggling to insert her bony body between him and Medhurst as they walked in the garden one afternoon. “I have heard a strange rumour about your uncle, Lord Rennington, Mr Atherton. I am sure it cannot be true…”
She paused, perhaps hoping he would intervene to rescue her from the unladylike act of repeating gossip, but he merely raised an enquiring eyebrow.
With an arch look, she went on, “No, it cannot be.”
She tittered, in an irritating way that made him want to slap her. Why were so many women incapable of talking sensibly, saying what they meant without prevarication, and by all the gods, not giggling? If only they were all so straightforward as Bea!
“But then it came from my aunt,” she persevered, “whose neighbour is a very great friend of Lady Rennington, so it must havesometruth in it, would you not agree?”
“Since you have not yet told me what it is, I can hardly comment,” he said.
“Why, that the earl’s marriage is invalid and all the children are disinherited.”
