Bea sat in appalled silence as the carriage slowly made its way through the night.
***
An hour of reflection brought Bea to a calmer frame of mind. She could not be forced to marry Lord Rennington, or anyone else, no matter how her stepmother schemed. Visiting him would do no harm, and it might even be amusing to observe Miss Hand’s attempts to capture his interest.
But breakfast brought a difficulty. Her stepmother was early, for once, full of excitement about her new plans.
“I have drafted a letter for you to send to Bertram Atherton,” she said, placing a paper in front of Bea. “You may copy it in a fair hand, just as it is. There is no need to belabour the point. He will understand.”
“A letter?”
“Ending this betrothal of yours. It was never a proper betrothal anyway, and this way you will not have the awkwardness of an interview.”
“But I shall see him later today for my Latin lesson,” Bea said, with a sinking heart, knowing what was coming.
“Thatwill all have to stop, naturally. Your father will give him the letter when he arrives at noon today, but we shall be on our way to Corland Castle by then. Everything is arranged.”
“Mama, I am not going to marry Lord Rennington. He is old enough to be my grandfather.”
Lady Esther laughed. “Not unless he was extremely precocious.”
“Well, my father, then.”
“What has that to say to anything? Such marriages are perfectly common in the higher ranks, and it is not as if the earl were in his dotage. He is still perfectly healthy, and a littlestoutness is only to be expected in a man of his age. Really, Beatrice, you are become most ungrateful for the opportunities which come your way. You baulked at the marquess, and perhaps you are not quite the right person to be a duchess, for it is a daunting task, so I understood that, and you already had an alternative. But Bertram is out of the question now, so—”
“No, Mama.”
Lady Esther pursed her lips, and tapped the letter. “Write it out in a fair hand.”
So saying, she rose and left the breakfast parlour.
Bea read the letter in growing disgust.‘Dear Mr Atherton, Pray accept my good wishes for your health and future happiness, but I cannot marry you or accept any more Latin lessons from you. Beatrice Franklyn.’
“Not even an apology,” she said sadly. “She cannot seriously expect me to send this… can she?”
“There is no knowing what she expects,” her father said with a gentle smile. “She is as adamant, in her way, as you are, but the question of a husband is a matter for you alone to decide.”
“Not entirely,” she said miserably. “It is also for him to decide.”
“True. So why not use this as an opportunity to find out what he wants? You have always said that you intended to put an end to this betrothal, so here is your chance. Send this letter, exactly as it is, with no hint of softness about it. If he heaves a sigh of relief and disappears back to his books, you will know where you stand. But if he has any affection for you at all, he will try to win you back.”
“Or he might simply accept his dismissal, assuming I care nothing for him. If only I could talk to him, Papa! If only I could explain to him…”
“Why do you not?”
“Because I promised! I gave my word that I would not set my cap at him.”
“Then of course you must keep to that,” her father said. “But remember, Bea, he lives just three miles away, and you will meet often. He rarely leaves home, so he will always be there. You have endless time to win his heart. All is not lost if you set him free now.”
“It feels like it,” she said glumly.
***
Bertram rode Catullus that morning, glad to have his own horse under him once more, and as fit and full of energy as ever. He laughed as he thought of John Whyte jumping him over the toll-gate and making a mull of it, the horse determined that he would jump and the rider trying to dissuade him. That never worked! Once a horse has taken it into his head to jump, he was best left to get on with it. All things considered, Whyte had done a good job to get him over the gate at all.
Jumping was not Bertram’s style. He rarely hunted, for that reason, and even when he rode in the regular way, he was happy to open gates with the ladies. He had never been one for showing off. Not like Grayling! His face darkened when he thought of that man, who had peacocked about in front of Bea, and then retreated smartly as soon as he saw that her father was an expert swordsman, who would not hesitate to call him out if he transgressed. A libertine and a coward.
Why was he thinking of Grayling, anyway? Much more pleasant to think of Bea, and today’s Latin lesson. He had chosen a poem about kisses for her to read, and perhaps that would give her a hint of the way his thoughts were running. Her kisses… oh, her kisses! If only he could have more of them. The memory of her lips on his haunted his dreams, and his waking thoughts,too. Catullus sensed the sudden excitement in his rider, for he increased his pace uncomfortably, and Bertram was obliged to rein him back a little.
