by Lenora Bell
I’ve made many mistakes in my life, but marrying Mr. Castle was not one of them, even though that choice precluded me from being a part of your life.
I hope you will divine my meaning and that this Revelation of Love helps you to be brave, and not hide yourself away. Allow me to point the way.
I place my trust in you.
Your loving (secret) Aunt Matilda
What a strange choice of words. Revelation of Love, capitalized in that way. It was almost as if her aunt were trying to tell her something more with this letter, but Beatrice couldn’t, for the life of her, figure out what.
The main intent of the letter was very clear. Keep the property in the family. Protect the precious collection of books. Even if it meant defying her mother and striking out on her own.
It was the same message she’d received from her friends and from Wright.
Finding a way to make her mother agree to allow her to renovate the bookshop into a clubhouse wouldn’t be easy.
This house filled with ancient manuscripts and research books felt far more inviting than her brother’s house in Mayfair. She wanted to stay here, to open those tantalizing crates of books, and transform the property into a clubhouse for her friends. A welcoming haven where women could meet to discuss goals, to nurture dreams, and to support one another, safe from society’s scorn and censure.
Perhaps she’d been selfish turning down Wright’s offer outright, just because he made her feel on edge and weak-kneed at the same time.
The bookshop required rescuing, even if she didn’t.
Too late.
She’d already refused his offer, and he didn’t strike her as a man who extended an offer twice. She’d have to take charge herself—find another carpenter, and consult with Isobel and with her brother’s solicitor regarding Foxton’s claim to the property. It was imperative to begin the renovations immediately, before Foxton had a chance to regroup and make good on his threats.
She gazed at the cracked leather spines of several early dictionaries she’d gathered from the shelves in the showroom. This was her chance to write a new chapter in her life, to claim a modicum of freedom within her mother’s kingdom.
She wouldn’t relinquish this chance without a fight.
Chapter Eight
It had taken four hours and a small army to ready Beatrice for tonight’s ball at the Earl of Mayhew’s home in St. James’s.
She’d been bathed, and then powdered, perfumed, and wrapped in a robe to sit by the fire, dry her hair, and await the arrival of that most important of personages, the hairdresser.
The dowager duchess wasn’t going to entrust the dressing of her daughter’s hair to a mere lady’s maid. She’d hired a private hairdresser direct from Paris to attend her daughter and create a style so elaborate that it would awe every person at the ball by sheer dint of complexity.
The hairdresser, a Monsieur Armoire, had parted Beatrice’s hair into three sections, exclaiming in consternation at the unruliness of her curls, which he tamed into submission by combing through her long hair until her eyes watered. The two partings on the side were formed into glossy ringlets with curling tongs and the liberal application of pomade. The back section was pulled painfully by the roots and braided tightly, then wrapped atop her head with the ends of the long braids fashioned into a bow.
The whole braided, looped, and bowed creation was stuck with diamond pins in the shape of cupid’s arrows. The final touch was a diamond ferronnière draped across her forehead with a central diamond drop that lay in the center of her brow and sparkled in the corners of her vision.
After her hair had been tortured, her body had been corseted within an inch of her life, and encased in a heavy gown of ivory silk brocade with a sheer overlay and voluminous gigot sleeves made of transparent gauze.
The low, wide bodice of the gown left her shoulders bare but encased her bosom in four layers of stiff lace ruffles that extended across the sleeves of the gown, rather like an Elizabethan ruff that had migrated from her neck to spread across her upper arms and décolletage.
The darling slippers of her mother’s dreams completed the ensemble, done in the same ivory silk, which, to Beatrice’s mind, was a ridiculous color for shoes. The slippers had pointed toes that pinched her feet and diamond clips that could prove hazardous to her hem.
When she was finally pronounced ready and led to the looking glass, Beatrice didn’t recognize herself at all. She was an elegant, if bizarrely silhouetted, creature of her mother’s invention, a sylphlike will-o’-the-wisp emerging from layers of creamy lace and topped by a stiff bow of red hair that bobbed when she nodded.
By this time they were late for the ball, so Beatrice was bundled into a carriage like a precious, breakable package and trundled along the London streets with her mother chattering about dance cards and eligible earls the entire way.
Her mother didn’t seem to notice that Beatrice was silent as a tomb, perhaps mistaking her silence for awe at the transformation that had been accomplished, or even acquiescence to her mother’s matrimonial aspirations.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
Beatrice spent the carriage ride running through the details of the plan she’d devised.
Her plan required subtle persuasive tactics, which had never been her strong suit, and strategic failure, which was something she excelled at.
If it worked, the plan would result in her mother allowing her to keep the bookshop, and sign it over to the league of ladies, and would allow Beatrice the freedom to inventory the crates of books and manuscripts at her leisure.
It would make these months in London infinitely more bearable if she could escape her mother for even a few hours every day. She might even complete some work on her dictionary in the sanctuary of the bookshop.
If her plan worked.
She was determined to make it work.
Upon arriving in the brightly lit ballroom that buzzed with conversation and laughter, Beatrice immediately set about accomplishing the strategic failure part of the plan. She insulted Mayhew’s mother with an observation that she’d seen a similar centerpiece to the silver one on her refreshment table at the home of a grocer’s wife, and trod upon the Duke of Marmont’s toes as they danced. She managed to catch one of her diamond shoe clips on the Dowager Countess of Fletcher’s hem, which ripped off a goodly portion of lace and caused an awkward scene.
Beatrice’s conversation was alarmingly fast-paced and punctuated by nasally laughter that produced pained expressions from her dance partners. And the coup de grâce was accomplished when she managed to dip her enormous sleeves into the punch bowl, thereby staining the sheer fabric with a watery red splotch that wouldn’t come out, no matter how hard her mother scrubbed at it in the lady’s retiring room.
Her mother draped a lace shawl around Beatrice’s shoulders and pinned it with a brooch, all the while pronouncing that it spoiled the effect of the bodice most egregiously.
Beatrice could barely restrain a self-satisfied chuckle. When would her mother reach her breaking point?
“My dance with Mayhew is at hand, Mama.”
“I know,” her mother said with a grim expression, grabbing Beatrice by the elbow and steering her, none too gently, toward a row of potted ferns.
“I thought I wasn’t to hide behind the ferns, Mama.”
“I want to speak with you. In private.”
She must play this conversation perfectly. No tipping of her hand.
“Now listen to me, Beatrice.” Her fingers tightened around her daughter’s elbow. “Are you trying to humiliate me? When I said you needed to make more of an effort, I meant more of an effort at being agreeable and charming, not annoying and clumsy.”
“I haven’t read any books, or used one arcane word or mentioned my dictionary at all. I’ve danced with six eligible gentlemen of your choosing, and I’ve avoided the company of the timorous wallflowers hovering along the edges of the ballroom.”
“You have followe
d all my rules but done so in a way that renders the rules meaningless.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I’m so distracted this evening. My mind is back at Castle’s Bookshop with all of those glorious unopened crates of books.”
Her mother gestured impatiently. “We’ll have the crates brought to our house, though heaven knows where we’ll keep more books. There are entirely too many books already.”
“One can never have too many books, Mama. I didn’t have time to do a thorough search of the premises—but there might be some very rare volumes that I wouldn’t want just anyone handling—”
“Balls, Beatrice. Not books. Focus, please. You must at least pretend to be enjoying yourself while dancing with gentlemen.”
“I can’t enjoy myself when I’m worried I’ll make the wrong step. I would be a more graceful and gracious dance partner if you would allow me to wear my spectacles. I have them in my reticule in the cloakroom.”
“You don’t need your spectacles. I’m here to guide you through the evening and into the arms of eligible gentlemen.”
“It might help if I could actually see their faces instead of a blur with eyes. I might enjoy myself more.”
“That matters not at all. Your duty is to smile and follow their lead. Men are looking for their own reflections. Always remember that, Beatrice. They want to see their strength, wit, and power reflected in your eyes.”
Don’t be beastly, Beatrice.
Smile. Be congenial. Hide your true nature. Be a mirror for others’ glory. “Don’t be difficult,” said her mother.
“I’m not being difficult, I’m only distracted by the thought of all of those ancient manuscripts languishing in wooden crates and threatened by damp floorboards.”
“Your father told me that there was some scandal attached to the bookshop though he would never tell me the specifics. If this buried scandal comes to light, I don’t want it reflecting poorly on your reputation.”
“It won’t, Mama. I’ve decided to sign over the bookshop to the Knitting League, as our new clubhouse. If any scandal comes to light, it will be associated with our president, the Duchess of Ravenwood.”
“I daresay duchesses are more able to weather scandal. Especially Ravenwood, since her reputation wasn’t exactly spotless to begin with. But what of our solicitor? I told Greenaway to sell the property.”
“No papers have been signed.” Beatrice made her face as bland as possible. This next move was where the subtlety came into play. “You know, Mama, it might be easier to enter more fully into the spirit of these entertainments if I were allowed to explore my new inheritance.”
Her mother searched her face. “I see. So that’s what this is all about. I can garb you in finery, dress your hair in the latest fashion but I can’t force you to be sociable, is that it?”
“Your words, Mama. Not mine.”
“You want to strike a bargain.”
“A bargain?”
“Don’t act so innocent. You know that’s what you’re hinting at. You want to spend time in that dusty old bookshop, and if I let you do that, then you’ll make more of an effort. Very well. What will it take, Beatrice? One hour a day? Two?”
Beatrice dropped the idea of subtlety. Her mother was far too perceptive, as well as being the master of bargaining.
“If you grant me two hours a day at the bookshop, I promise to be the most sweet-tempered and congenial lady in the room on every social call, at every ball, soiree, and musicale.”
“Ha! I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“Try me, Mama. See how I sparkle. See how proud I make you.”
The first notes of the waltz drifted into her ears. She was to dance with Mayhew, her mother’s chosen target. The stakes were high . . . would she agree?
Her mother held her gaze for several more seconds, before heaving a decidedly un-duchess-like sigh. “Oh, very well. You win, Beatrice. When your schedule permits, you may spend a few hours going through those dusty crates of books. With adequate chaperonage, of course.”
“Of course,” Beatrice agreed eagerly. “There’s a housekeeper, a Mrs. Kettle, a most motherly matron, who is present most days.”
“The shop is closed I presume?”
“Closed and kept locked.”
“You’ll take one of our carriages, and the coachman will wait for you outside.”
“Agreed.” Beatrice couldn’t believe her plan was actually working. “I won’t disappoint you, Mama.”
“Now is your chance to prove yourself. Go and dance with Mayhew.” She practically shoved her out from behind the ferns.
Beatrice was prepared to dazzle now that she’d accomplished her goal.
Soon she was gliding across the floor in the arms of the golden-haired Earl of Mayhew. She remembered her mother’s instructions and stared vacantly up at him, smiling sweetly and allowing him to control her every movement.
He blathered and blustered on and on about himself, and all she had to do was supply fresh subjects for his soliloquies, such as the bloodlines of his stables, his legendary prowess at sports and hunting, and his castle in Herefordshire.
His increasingly warm manner and attentions made it plain that if she played her cards right, she might very well have a chance at the unfathomable honor of becoming the Countess of Mayhew.
It would be one avenue away from her dear, well-meaning, overbearingly smothering mother.
No, it wouldn’t. Not really.
As Lady Mayhew, she’d be expected to entertain, to fulfill her role as a society doyen, to turn a blind eye to her husband’s indiscretions while maintaining a blameless reputation.
A whole new set of rules and expectations and social obligations would descend on her like a plague of locusts, eating away at her spirit and her dreams.
She’d seen it happen to girls who made advantageous marriages against their wishes. She’d seen the desperation in their eyes, the curtailment of any freedoms, the dulling of conversation and stilting of movements. She’d witnessed her own parents’ marriage.
A marriage of social convenience where her mother gave up all of her own needs and desires in order to service her demanding and dismissive husband.
All Mayhew cared about was himself—all he wanted was the use of her more than generous dowry, and a meek, docile pool in which to view, like Narcissus, his own reflection.
After the dance, Mayhew delivered her back to her mother. “Lady Beatrice, I hope you will do me the honor of standing up with me again later in the evening?”
“I’d be most honored, my lord,” replied Beatrice, with a pretty curtsy that made her mother smile brighter than the flickering candles.
Beatrice was swept into the arms of another eligible gentleman, and her mother gathered with her friends to gossip about the evening’s developments.
Toward the end of the evening, Lady Millicent Granger, Beatrice’s sworn enemy, arrived by her side as she stood for a moment, catching her breath after all the dancing.
“A few new feathers do not a swan make,” said Lady Millicent in an undertone, maintaining a beatific expression on her lovely face. “You’ll always be—”
“Beastly,” said Beatrice, cutting her off. “So you’ve maintained all of these years since finishing school. One does wonder why, over the years, you couldn’t think of more varied ways to insult me. I could suggest a plethora of more inventive invectives, should you be interested in expanding your vocabulary.”
“As outlandish as ever, I see.” Lady Millicent got to the point. “Mayhew is mine. Don’t think that you can entice him with your dowry and your new French gowns.”
“I don’t see a ring on your finger.” Beatrice didn’t mind if Lady Millicent believed her pretense, though she had no intention of stealing her prize earl.
Her mother swooped in to rescue her from Lady Millicent, and they left the ball shortly thereafter.
“You were remarkably successful tonight, after our little chat, but it’s better not to push our luck.” Her
mother hurried her into the carriage. “We’ll keep your appearances brief. We’ll leave them wanting more. I knew this was your year, Beatrice. I felt it. What did Lady Millicent want?”
“To warn me away from Mayhew.”
Her mother settled into the carriage and wrapped her fur-trimmed cloak around her shoulders. “I was beginning to doubt you had the fortitude for this battle, and here you are becoming a triumph before my very eyes.”
“I will try, Mama.”
She had the fortitude. She’d do whatever it took to keep the shop and transform it into a clubhouse. Her aunt’s legacy, and the wonderful collection of books that could be kept as a library for the use of club members, would be put to a worthy purpose. She wouldn’t let anyone stand in the way of this dream. Not her mother, and certainly not predatory Mr. Foxton.
This time, the wallflowers were going to win.
Chapter Nine
“Do you ever think about it, Griff?” Ford didn’t have to say what it was. His old navy friend Griffith knew. He’d been there.
“Course I do.” Griffith continued coiling rope. They were on the deck of his fishing vessel, the Angela. Griff, as his friends knew him, was a grizzled old salt with deep lines grooved into his cheeks, a shock of untamed white hair, and an even wilder look in his piercing blue eyes. He’d retired from the navy a year ago and now fished for a living.
“Sometimes I can’t sleep thinking about it,” Ford said.
“That’s when you find company to take your mind off things. If your body’s too tired from bed sport, your mind can’t betray you.”
Ford stopped sanding the deck boards. “Haven’t had much company lately.”
“Problem with the flagpole, lad?”
“My pole’s just fine. It’s my mind that drags down.”
“Happens sometimes.”
They worked silently on their respective tasks. It was a cold, sunny day. Gulls wheeled overhead and sun shone on the back of his neck as he sanded the decking he’d replaced. Ford hadn’t boarded a ship in six months. He’d missed the water . . . and he’d feared it.
