“What is the matter with you, Atherton?” Fielding cried. “Anyone would think you want the girl for yourself, given the excessively high opinion you have of her. She is a darling, but she is as weak and foolish as any other female. Look at the way she throws herself at Brockscombe and Medhurst, with not a thought for me, who truly cares for her. She sees the titles and is dazzled, as all females are. You have only to see how they sniff around Embleton, poor fellow — and you, now they think you might be an earl one day. They ignore you for weeks, but at the slightest hint of a rumour that you are in line for a title, there they are, gazing worshipfully at you and hanging on your every word.”
“Miss Franklyn has forty thousand pounds, my friend,” Bertram said uncomfortably, for that was close to home. “Why should she not aim for a title, if that would please her?”
“Because a title is no guarantee of good character, that is why,” Fielding said. “Look at Grayling, if you doubt it. And mark my words, Miss Franklyn is not as sensible as you imagine. She has been flirting with Grayling since she arrived, and who can blame her? Not I! He is every woman’s dream, is he not? Handsome, charming, rich and a baron — how can a mereclergyman, without good looks or address or fortune, compete with that? How can any of us? We are all deficient in one way or another, while he has everything a woman could desire in a man. Atherton, you get along better with her than any of us — if you want to save her from Grayling’s clutches, maybe you should offer for her yourself.”
“I have no wish to marry her,” Bertram said in a low voice. Was that true? He was too confused to say.
“Then perhaps you should stop berating those of us who do. Ack, what is the use? She will never look at me. I am going to bed. Try not to snore so much tonight, Brockscombe.”
***
Bertram’s sleep was troubled that night. He woke several times with Bea’s face in his mind, and then lay fretfully awake. At first, he occupied himself with envisaging her happily married to one or other of his friends, but in every case the result displeased him. Brockscombe was a frivolous coxcomb, Medhurst would be distracted by every passing pretty face and as for Fielding, surely Bea deserved a better fate than to be a clergyman’s wife.
Then there was Lord Grayling… and that was another matter. It was all very well for Bertram to say confidently that Bea was too sensible to be taken in by the smooth words of a snake, but she certainly seemed to enjoy his company. It was worrying.
What was the matter with him?Anyone would think you want the girl for yourself, given the excessively high opinion you have of her.So Fielding had said, but was he right? What would it be like to marry Bea? At once an image filled his mind of the two of them at the breakfast table, speaking in fluent Latin, just as he had talked about to Medhurst. What fun that would be! And yet… married? Was he ready to surrender his freedom?
He rose as soon as there was enough light to see by, dressed in clothes old and unfashionable enough to be donned without his valet’s aid, and went down to the stables. John Whyte, his groom, was already up and sweeping. Was there never any end to the need to sweep out the stable yard?
“Morning, sir,” Whyte called out cheerfully. “Saddle Catullus for you, shall I?”
“Thank you, yes, and I shall want him again this afternoon. The ladies are getting up an expedition, seemingly.”
“So I heard, sir. Such a sight it will be to see all the fine ladies riding out! Tis a pity your sisters ride so seldom, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so. A lady never looks so pretty as aback a horse after a good ride. Proper puts colour in their cheeks, it does.”
Bertram laughed and agreed to it, though he had never noticed it.
He did not ride far, not wanting to overtax Catullus with two long outings on one day, and although the exercise was good for his body, it did nothing to soothe his troubled mind. Still, the hour was now sufficiently advanced that he could summon Bayley to dress him for the day, and then make his way to the old schoolroom.
These visits had become a secret delight to him. He had begun the very day after that devastating kiss, horribly torn about it, but bound by his promise to help Bea to learn Latin, or so he told himself. He was not sure how he could face her… or whether she would even want to see him. Surely it would be dreadfully embarrassing for both of them? But he had the happy idea of arming himself with a written list of some common Latin phrases, and although Bea coloured up and would not look him in the eye just at first, the list had given them something to talk about. Within a very few minutes, they were again on the easiest of terms, and no one to see them together would guess that she had reduced him to a quivering wreck just the day before.
Each morning before breakfast, therefore, they met in the schoolroom, and studied the Latin primer. Bertram read passages from the book for Bea to repeat, and then to translate, and sometimes he dictated while she wrote it down, the scratching of chalk on the slate taking him straight back to his childhood. Today she was there before him, already hard at work.
“How are you progressing with those declensions?”
She pulled a face. “Will you help me with this passage? It is by Caesar, and I am finding it difficult. It reads,‘Caesar, exposito exercitu et loco castris idoneo capto…’. What is‘idoneo’?”
“Suitable.”
“Ah. A suitable position for the camp. But this part,‘ubi ex captivis cognovit…’.The sentence seems too convoluted.”
“It is a little awkward to the English ear. So, ‘Caesar, having landed the army and captured… found, perhaps, a suitable position for camp, when he learned from prisoners…’”
“Why does he write about himself that way…hedid,helearned? Why not I did, I learned?”
Bertram smiled. “Julius Caesar was a genius. He could write however he liked.”
“I suppose in a way it reads better,” she said thoughtfully, her head tipped to one side like a bird. “It makes it less personal, more of a historical record. Now, this line here…”
Bertram sat beside her, as they both bent over the book. The print was quite small, so it was necessary to lean close to her to read it. Her arm rested barely an inch from his, a curl of her hair tickled his ear and he could see her chest rise and fall as she breathed. For himself, it was hard to breathe at all. He was painfully aware of her closeness, the whiteness of her finger resting on the page, her voice soft in his ear, the rustle of hergown as she moved. Her scent — something he could not identify — wreathed itself around him. So hard tothink…
“Bertram? Are you quite well?”
“Um…”
“Valesne?”
That forced a little burst of laughter from him.“Ita… ita… valeo. Ignosce mihi.”
