“Compromise?” Bea said, puzzled.
“By marrying your father. As a duke’s daughter, I should have married into the nobility. A younger son, perhaps, but at least an Honourable.” She sighed. “But year after year I went up to town and dutifully danced at every ball. I was accomplished, I was ladylike and I had admirers, certainly, but none worthy of my rank. My sisters came out one by one, and all married well. Two earls and a baron. The younger son of a marquess. And still I waited. But then came the year I was twenty-six, still unwed and Grace waiting in the wings. Grace. My youngest sister. Sixteen, as lovely as an angel and she hadthirty thousand pounds.So unfair! What could I not have done with thirty thousand pounds? An earl, at least. Or Lord Henry, who was only a younger son, but such a darling. However, with so many daughters, Papa could not give any of us more than ten thousand. Then Grace’s godmother gave her thirty thousand.Thirty thousand pounds!My godmother gave me a silver cross when I was confirmed. Oh, and a prayer book bound in ivory.So you will understand why I had to act, before Grace swept in and took all London by storm and married a duke, and cast me entirely into the shade.”
“But… this is the Lady Grace Skelton?” Bea said wonderingly.
“Skelton!”Lady Esther spat, her lip curling. “With all those advantages, she had to throw herself away on a nobody. Although, to be fair, he was the heir to an earldom until his uncle married the governess and started breeding sons. The governess! What a family!”
“I like Mr Skelton,” Bea said.
“Everybody likes George Skelton, but one does not marry a man just because one likes him. He has to bring more to the marriage than a handsome face and charming manners. So I went to stay with my friend in Newcastle, and there I met your father who saved me from being an old maid.”
“Even though he is a mere mister?” Bea said mischievously.
“He is an extremely wealthy mister,” she said seriously. “Money is important, too. Perhaps even more important than rank. And he is undeniably handsome, and in very good condition for his age.Extremelygood condition.” Her expression softened momentarily. “That is important, too. Lord Brockscombe, for example, is well enough now, but one can tell at a glance that he will be stout before he is forty. I do not like stout men.”
Her stepmother fell silent for a while, lost in some thoughts that were clearly pleasant for her lips curled up into something resembling a smile.
Eventually she sighed, and rose to her feet. “It is late, and you should be asleep. Time is short, Beatrice, but I do not yet despair of your prospects, nor fear that you will be unwed at twenty-six. There is still a possibility of Lord Grayling, but if that fails, you must keep going with Bertram. Persevere, Beatrice, persevere. You are very good at perseverance.”
“Bertram does not want to marry, Mama.”
“Nonsense! Look how attentive he has been these last few weeks. It will not take long to bring him to the point of a proposal, and you know well enough how to do that. I have given you enough hints. You will have your title yet, my dear.”
“I am not sure I want a reluctant husband, Mama.”
“No, indeed! Who would? It is up to you to ensure that he is not reluctant. But if Bertram cannot be brought round, then we shall go to Marshfields in the autumn… or Brandlebury… or Bath! There is an idea! All manner of men go to Bath over the winter. Yes, that might answer. But no more Latin, understood?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“No more book learning of any sort. Remember always that you are a lady.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Good. I am glad we understand each other. Now sleep, for tomorrow is another day, and another chance to secure a husband. And not a Sunday, thank heavens, so we will have some more interesting activities to amuse us than recitations from Shakespeare. Your father says that it will rain tomorrow, which seems to please him, but we must hope he is wrong about that. Good night, Beatrice.”
“Good night, Mama.”
Lady Esther picked up the candelabrum and left, plunging the room back into darkness. For a long time Bea sat unmoving, not even bothering to lie down again, mulling over her stepmother’s words.
Lady Esther might be confident that Bertram could be brought round, and perhaps she was right. Bea had always been good at getting what she wanted, by the simple expedient of never giving up. Her indulgent father had always been an easy mark. Aunt Betty, who had looked after her when Mama haddied, was just as unresisting. Walter had drifted into her net almost without realising it.
But there were some people who were immovable. Her stepmother was one such, and Bea had long since given up trying to convince her of any point she refused to concede. Bea had an uncomfortable feeling that Bertram was cut from the same cloth. Yet she could not pursue Bertram at all, for she had given her word and that was binding. She might not always behave in a ladylike manner, but she knew that a promise was sacrosanct, and must never be broken.
Yet if not Bertram, who else was there? Lord Grayling, who may be merely flirting with her? Mr Fielding, who loved her but was a mere clergyman? Lord Brockscombe, who kissed her only to steal a hairpin? Or Lord Thomas Medhurst, who forced a kiss upon her without so much as asking?
None of them set her heart racing, or warmed her inside, but at least if she married a man with a title she would have some standing in society. She would be Lady Grayling… or Lady Brockscombe… or Lady Thomas Medhurst. She would have a place in the nobility, and even the haughty Bucknells of Marshfields would have to acknowledge her as one of them. They would not be able to sneer at her as they now did… as they did even to Mama, for marrying a man without a title.
And that would be something, even if her marriage was not perfect. Surely that would be enough? She supposed glumly that it would have to be.
But as she lay down and closed her eyes ready for sleep, the image filling her inner eye was of Bertram, his sweet face and his smile of approbation as she recited Horace. And his kiss! Her whole body wriggled with pleasure as she recalled that glorious kiss.
If only she could marry Bertram! Then she would have a husband who lit fires inside her, and she could learn Latin too, and what could be more perfect?
If only.
20: A Wet Monday
Monday morning was grey and damp, the sky heavy with the promise of more rain to come. It was all in perfect accordance with Bea’s mood. Once she had skipped along the echoing passageways to the old schoolroom each morning, but now her steps dragged. She hardly knew why she went there, for the Latin primer sat balefully on the table, willing her to open it. But she was forbidden, so she simply sat, arms folded, head lowered, deep in misery. She was so lost in her own depressing thoughts that she did not hear Bertram enter the room.
