“Maybe you should at least have a straw basket on your arm,” Charlotte considered.
“We’ll see.” Beatrice had no intention of having either a crook or a basket. “As for you, Mr. Carson, have you given it any thought?”
“A knight or Shakespeare,” he offered.
“An armored knight’s costume would be most uncomfortable, not to mention expensive, and you wouldn’t be able to dance,” Beatrice pointed out. Lady Emily couldn’t get anywhere close to him.Maybe it was the ideal costume!
“Shakespeare might be fine,” Charlotte said, “but boring. Some people go as things, like a magpie, or even abstract notions such as music or the night, but I think those are usually costumes for women.”
“How does one embody music or nighttime?” he asked. He and Beatrice both looked to Charlotte for answers.
“I’ve seen it in the fashion magazines. Imagine a woman in a midnight blue gown with a panel of stars, and a moon, and a headdress of stars, too. And for music, the lady in the magazine wore a Grecian costume sewn with musical notes and holding a lyre.”
Beatrice wrinkled her nose. “I would hate to hold that all night. Besides some ninny would ask me to play it, I’d warrant. I would have to whack him over the head with my lyre.” But that wasn’t helping Greer. “What have you seen in your fashion magazines for dashing men?”
“Yes,” he chimed in, “I want to hear about fancy dress solely for dashing men.”
Without speaking, Charlotte reached into the case and grabbed out three chocolates and handed one to each of them. Beatrice didn’t normally indulge, but welcomed the sweet deliciousness of one of Amity’s treats.
“Creamy and ... is that coffee I taste?” Greer asked with wonder.
“Yes,” Charlotte said, “it’s Amity’s famed Pelham. The duke loves coffee. It gives one an afternoon pick-you-up, especially if we all eat another.”
With that said, she handed them both another and then ate one herself. “As for dashing men,” she mused, “the magazines have no end to what you can achieve. I’ve seen them dressed as crusaders, and every king or prince, and as brigands, and as knights but only with a breastplate. Of course, some go as a brightly clad Shakespearean fool or clown.”
“Probably best to stay away from those last ones,” Beatrice advised him, “seeing as you’re already an American in our midst.”
“Bea!” Charlotte admonished.
“It’s quite all right, Miss Charlotte,” Greer said, “I take your sister’s point. I am seen by many as an uncouth outsider from across the ocean. Best not dress up as a fool.”
“Exactly,” Beatrice said. “That’s all I meant. Anyway, the problem with dressing as a king or even a famous soldier is how will anyone know whom you are supposed to be? I think something befitting your heritage would be nice.” She imagined him in a kilt as a Scottish warrior. Moreover, she would like to see his legs.
“A good idea,” he agreed. “You ladies have given me a great deal to think about. I shall buy a pound of toffee, please. And two heart-shaped chocolates.”
For his lady-love, Beatrice realized, and all her good humor vanished as swiftly as the London sun on any given afternoon.
“I must get back to work,” she said curtly. “Good day,” and turned on her heel. As she parted the curtain, she realized her heart ached.
Biting her lower lip to keep from crying, she cursed silently! She’d been doing so well, and now it was as if she’d just lost her friend all over again and would have to rally once more.
Hearing the bell tinkle when he left, she kicked her stool across the floor.
***
CHARLOTTE WAS ALREADYin the dining room eating breakfast when Beatrice had entered. She was sketching, and Beatrice looked over her sister’s shoulder when she passed behind her chair to see what her subject was — a woman in a Turkish costume.
“I vow every event now seems a pale shadow of the fancy-dress ball, and it’s only a week away!” Charlotte crowed.
In the workroom of the shop later that day, Beatrice stood at the stove, hardly paying attention to what she did. She would almost give up the marvelous experience ahead of them at Marlborough House if she could retire from the Season, stay home, and tend her invisible wounds. No longer could she deny that she was heartbroken, a word she never thought to apply to herself. How else could she describe the ache in her chest or the distraught emotions and feeling of hopelessness? Moreover, a lump of sadness seemed firmly wedged in her throat, and tears made her eyes feel hot as she worked determinedly not to let them spill over. There was no point in crying, no point in wanting what she couldn’t have.
Beatrice and the wonderfully likeable Greer Carson had entered into their arrangement with plain, honest speaking, knowing they were not going to end up together. However, as the days had turned into weeks and then into months, it seemed the one man she had any interest in getting to know better and in spending more time with was him.
Now the American had achieved his goal. He’d found his coveted titled lady.
As for Beatrice, well, she’d met a man, or maybe three, who would suffice if all she wanted was a pleasant smile, commonplace conversation, and a regular husband. Probably they would beget her perfectly ordinary babies, too. Lord Melton topped the list since he was persistent and attentive.
Nonetheless, she wanted Greer and his crooked grin. She wanted his funny, accented way of speaking and the sense of humor they shared. She wanted an uncommon husband exactly like him and the unique babies they would create.
