Only one man in the whole company was not bland, and that was Lord Grayling. Despite Bertram’s warning that he was not looking for a wife, he seemed very drawn to the ladies, bestowing his attentions on all the unmarried ones in turn. Nor was it merely her imagination that suggested he was more drawn to Bea than to any of the others. After dinner, when the gentlemen returned to the saloon, he was always one of the first, would pass a few words with one or two of the others, but would then make his way steadily towards Bea and settle beside her until the card tables came out. At that point he would disengage, for he always played in the same four, but Bea could not mistake his interest in her.
She found him much easier company than the men on Bertram’s list. He teased her gently, as a friend would, and laughed when she paid him back in his own coin. She felt she knew him well, and since he was a baron, she had no doubt at all that she would accept him in a heartbeat if he should offer for her. So while she allowed Bertram to steer her towards his friends, she kept Lord Grayling in her eye and in her mind, and nurtured her hopes.
There was only one of the names on Bertram’s list that she had not got to know at all, and that was the Marquess of Embleton. When she had been introduced to him, he had made her an awkward bow. He had not the distinguished appearance which would befit his exalted rank, for he was small in height and slight in stature, his face pale and unmemorable. When she addressed him, he replied, “P-p-pleased to m-m-make your acquaintance, M-M-M…MissF-F-Franklyn.”
Oh dear. She smiled, and addressed two or three questions to him, to which he replied with the minimum of words, as might be expected for a man with such a defect in his speech. He wasspeedily reclaimed by Miss Grayling, who helpfully rushed in to guess each word he struggled with in a patronising manner which set Bea’s teeth on edge. She wondered how the marquess bore it so patiently, but perhaps he was used to people treating him like an imbecile.
Since then, she had never had occasion to speak to him. He was a distant figure glimpsed at dinner or in the saloon, and although she thought he attended the Latin meetings, she never saw him speak. But one day, as she explored a new corner of the garden, a sudden turn in the path brought her face to face with him. He was sitting alone, deep in contemplation, on a marble bench facing a statue of a goddess or nymph of some kind. Perhaps it had once been part of a fountain, for there was a deep stone bowl surrounding it, but now the bowl was half filled with rotted leaves and weeds.
The marquess jumped up as she approached, and bowed. She curtsied, and would have walked past him at once, but the way beyond the bench was blocked by a fallen branch.
“What a peaceful spot!” she said. “I shall leave you to enjoy it in solitude.”
She turned, intending to walk back the way she had come, but he said quickly, “Stay!”
“Do you want some company?” When he nodded, she went on, “I should have thought you would be glad to find yourself alone for once.”
“Your c-c-company… welcome.”
“How very kind of you to say so. I shall sit with you for a little while, and chatter away, because I always do. I cannot seem to help it. There is no need for you to speak unless you wish to, you know. I am quite capable of chattering for both of us.” She settled herself on the bench and he sat beside her, smiling. “Of course, if you prefer me to be silent, I can try, I suppose, but I am not very good at it.”
He laughed at that. “P-p-please… chatter away.”
So she did, and although he said very little — in fact, she could not recall him uttering a word — he smiled a great deal and laughed occasionally, and altogether seemed not displeased. After a while, she heard distant voices. Having no wish to be found alone with him, for such a thing would cause endless speculation, she rose, curtsied, thanked him for his company and set off down the path. But whenever she saw him after that, he smiled at her and waved, even if there was no opportunity to speak.
12: A Latin Primer
One afternoon, the Latin meeting ended at an earlier time than usual. Bertram’s friends planned a ride despite damp weather, but Bertram was not minded for exercise. He had received a letter from his mother with interesting news, which he was sure that Bea would want to know. He made his way to the saloon, but there was no sign of her or her stepmother. Mr Franklyn was there, however, deep in a game of chess with the duke. He looked up at Bertram with a knowing smile.
“Looking for Bea, Atherton?”
“I was, in fact. She is usually here at this time of day.”
Franklyn’s smile widened. “I have not seen her since breakfast, but I do know that she planned to stay indoors today. She is not a great one for getting wet.”
“Ah. I shall look for her, then.”
He started in the few formal rooms where guests congregated in the afternoons, but without success. His next thought was the Long Gallery, in case she was taking her exercise there. When he found it empty, he checked the little gallery above the chapel.She was not there, either, so he made his way to the bedrooms assigned to the Franklyns. He was not quite sure which room was hers, for three rooms bore the label‘Franklyn’, but by knocking and calling at each in turn, he found a surprised maid, who confirmed that Bea was not there, but also that she had not taken any of her outdoor clothing.
She was definitely in the house, then. That narrowed the possibilities. Now it was a tedious matter of working his way through each wing in turn, calling out‘Miss Franklyn?’at regular intervals. He was on the third floor of the west wing, the windows grimy from years of accumulated dirt, when a head appeared from a door.
“What is it? Am I wanted? Oh, Bertram, it is you! What is the matter? Is Mama looking for me? Or Papa?”
“No, nothing of that nature. I wondered where you had hidden yourself, that is all. What are you doing up here?”
She grinned at him. “It is the old schoolroom. Come and see.”
It was so dusty that he could clearly see footprints on the floor. Great cobwebs hung from the ceiling and across the windows, and a hobby horse was so caked in dust that it looked black. But in the centre of the room was a table and chair which had been thoroughly cleaned, and here a book lay open, with a slate and a box of chalks beside it.
“You are working on your copybook, I see,” he said. “What a good schoolroom miss you are. Your governess would be proud of— Oh!” He picked up the book in astonishment, turning it over to read the spine.‘A Schoolboy’s First Latin Primer’, read the inscription in faded gold letters. “You are learning Latin?”
“There is no need to soundquiteso astonished,” she said. “We females do have brains, too, you know.”
“Of course, but… Latin?” He picked up the slate and laughed as he read from it. “‘Ubi sunt nautae.’”
“Oh, isthathow it is pronounced?‘Ubi sunt nautae. Nautae in taberna sunt. In tabernis non puellae sunt.’Did I get that right?”
“Ita vero.”
