“But I laid claim to her before any of you,” Brockscombe said. “She is mine.”
“Stop it!” Bertram yelled. “Stop talking about her as if she is an apple to be picked from the tree whenever you want. She is a person, for heaven’s sake!”
“What has got into you, Atherton?” Brockscombe snapped. “You are impossible these days.Iam going to offer for her, and if she turns me down… but why would she? A viscountcy, five thousand a year and as pretty an estate as you would see anywhere. No, she will not turn me down, but if she does, then you may try your luck, Medhurst.”
“Why shouldyouhave the first turn?” Medhurst said, poking Brockscombe in the chest.
“Why should he haveanyturn?” Bertram cried, throwing caution to the wind. “Why can you not leave her alone, both of you?” Seeing Fielding about to speak, he added, “Allof you. Let her go home, recover from the annoyance of you three and then, in a few months—”
“A few months!” Fielding wailed.
“I see no reason why we should wait,” Medhurst said. “Despite your carping, Atherton, Ihavebeen thinking about it, for I need to marry, and soon, since my poor brother is woefullyshort of heirs. I should not have rushed into it quite so quickly, but here is a lady in distress, deprived of the joy of Latin, and I have the ability to make her happy again.Andraise her up in the world. Lady Thomas Medhurst — it sounds well, do you not think?”
“Lady Brockscombe sounds better.”
“And Lady Rennington sounds best of all,” Bertram said recklessly.
“And how long would it be before she could call herself that?” Brockscombe said. “Many decades, we must all hope. You have no title yet, Atherton, not even a courtesy affair, so you are out of the reckoning. I shall go first and—”
“She should have a proper choice,” Bertram said. “If we all want to save her from the desert of a life without Latin, then we should all go to her at once and lay this question before her. Then she can decide for herself.”
It was a gamble. Surely they would not take him up on it?
But they did.
“Very well,” Brockscombe said.
“All of us at once,” Medhurst said. “Even Fielding. And you, Atherton, I suppose. Then she can see what is on offer, and pick the best.”
“When?” Fielding said.
“She will be in the old schoolroom before breakfast,” Bertram said. “Eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock?” Brockscombe said, horrified. “That is the middle of the night!”
“You need not come if it is too early for you,” Bertram said.
“No, no. I shall be there.” He exhaled sharply. “Lord, eight o’clock! In themorning!I shall never hear the end of it.”
22: The Delights Of Bath
It was habit that took Bea to the schoolroom that morning. Her Latin primer would still be there, sitting unopened on the table, calling to her but untouchable. If only she dared… but she could not disobey Mama. It was almost the first lesson her stepmother had taught her, all those years ago, even before the struggle with the accent, the deportment lessons, the expensive masters to teach her music, singing, dancing, painting.
“Whatever else you do, Beatrice,” she had said, “if you always do as you are told —preciselyas I tell you — then you cannot go wrong. Obedience is the golden rule, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Good girl. We shall make a lady of you yet, and then you will be able to marry a man of high rank and the world will be at your feet. But it will only happen if you do as you are told. Disobedience is the greatest sin there is.”
And Bea had been very obedient and done as she was told, and Walter had dropped into her lap like a ripe plum, just as Mama had predicted. But now there was no plum and noreplacement on the horizon, either, and not even obedience could wash away the stain of her unknown father. Obedience had failed her, ultimately, but still she could not break the golden rule. The Latin primer would sit, unopened, in front of her, although she could not quite bring herself to put it back on the shelf.
She would write to Aunt Betty, she decided, and tell her all about the tournament and the gentlemen she had danced with last night. Her aunt would enjoy that, and the letter would be passed around all their former friends and neighbours, so that they could read, wide-eyed, about the duke and duchess, the marquess who would be a duke one day, and all the other lords. Just as Papa’s friends at the fencing club would enjoy hearing about so many great men, so would Aunt Betty and her friends.
Perhaps she would write to Winnie Strong, too, who had returned from London without her suitor and was firmly back on the shelf again. A letter might cheer her up.
With her writing case in hand, she entered the schoolroom, to find it filled with gentlemen, shuffling their feet awkwardly and greeting her with diffidence, instead of their usual casual friendliness.
“This is… a surprise,” she said, with some feeling. “What brings you all here at this hour? It is usually only Bertram.”
