“It’s absolutely perfect, Birdie. You made the best choice!” Beatrix assured her.
In truth, it was very thoughtful of the girl to select a lovely yet unpresuming gown, though Beatrix knew not where she got it. Did the master keep closets full of dresses on hand for other times he stashed hapless young ladies about his residence?
She couldn’t help but notice how Birdie beamed at the compliment, and she felt a sudden need to praise Greta as well.
“My, Greta! Wherever did you learn to work this magic upon a girl’s hair? It’s never looked so wonderful!” She turned her head this way and that, making a show of admiring Greta’s handiwork.
“Thank you, miss,” Greta replied, grinning in spite of herself. “I hired on here in the laundry, but aim to become a lady’s maid should there be a need in the household.”
Beatrix was perplexed. How would one suddenly find themselves in need of a lady’s maid? She thought to ask, but then stopped short. The girls’ intentions, though kind and thoughtful, were painfully clear: they were primping Beatrix to impress the snooty lord of the manor.
“Birdie, Greta… thank you for all that you’ve done for me,” she began, “but I fear you’re only going to be disappointed.”
“What do ya mean, miss?” Birdie asked, looking genuinely confused. Greta nudged her with her elbow. At least one of them understood that this may all be a ruse.
“I am not a guest here, as you may well have imagined,” Beatrix explained, looking pained at how her words may be taken. “I am not here by my own choosing, and I’m certain that nothing will change about that.”
“But ya cannaw know for sure!” Birdie said, grinning broadly. “I think the master has taken a great likin’ to ya. Else, why would he have ya come up here? Why are we to bathe ya and dress ya and bring ya to supper?”
“To be sure, I don’t know the answer to that myself. I can only imagine it has something to do with our mutual plight.” She noted their confused expressions, and explained, “He and I both are in need of something, and both think the other has the power to provide it. But I’m afraid it’s not entirely true.”
“All right, miss,” Birdie agreed, though it was clear she still did not understand. “We’ll fetch ya when supper’s ready!”
Birdie and Greta curtsied lightly—a movement that irritated Beatrix slightly, as it was unnecessary—and left the room, closing the door behind them.
Beatrix had spent the entire day thumbing through various books and drawing simple sketches of flowers at the writing desk. She’d felt the unpleasant twinge of knowing that her door was not locked while daring not open it; only now did she see there was still a guard seated outside her door, and felt a great relief that she had not tried to make her escape.
Why she hadn’t tried, that was beyond her. As she would read or go about her sketches, Beatrix often found herself thinking about the man who had captured her. He seemed to not only be a kind individual, but also very concerned with others. Why, then, was she his prisoner? If he was as gentle and caring as he seemed, then it should have never crossed his mind to take such a cruel step.
“Don’t be unnerved, silly goose,” she thought, chastising herself. “He’s gloriously handsome and somewhat intelligent, but he’s still just like all the rest of them.”
Only a short while later, there was a soft knock at the door. Knowing it must be time, Beatrix bid Birdie and Greta enter, but she was astonished to see the lord of the house standing in the doorway instead.
He opened his mouth to speak but said nothing. Instead, he stared at her in obvious awe for a few moments until she politely cleared her throat.
“Oh, um, good day,” he finally stammered. Beatrix nodded, feeling as awkward as he appeared to be. “I know it is most unusual, but I thought I might escort you to dinner. I could show you much of the house along the way.”
“If that is what you wish,” she said, leaving the room to join him when he stepped back apace to let her pass.
She walked beside him down the long corridor, pausing at this item or that when he explained their significance. To his credit, Beatrix noted nothing he showed her seemed frivolous or overly gaudy. Each portrait, each sculpture, even the bannisters along the stair all had a story that was either amusing or inspiring.
Finally, they reached the dining room downstairs. Beatrix noted how their place settings were not at either end of the massive mahogany table, its surface gleaming in the light of the crystal chandeliers and wall sconces. Instead, they were to be seated across from one another at one end, presumably so that conversation might be more pleasant and more possible.
“I thought perhaps this room would be more appropriate than inviting you to dine in my quarters,” he began, and Beatrix felt the heat of blush rise in her cheeks.
“Quite so, I agree,” she said sternly, though she had to admit she had thought once or twice in passing what he might be like in the privacy of his own chambers, when he was not standing on ceremony. Walking into the splendid room and approaching one of the chairs. “Are the seats assigned? I don’t see my name on any of the place cards.”
“You only think you’re having fun at my expense,” he said, smiling in a knowing way, “but I’m to sit over there so that I might watch the door. If any villain were to enter and wish you harm, I would be on our guard.”
“Is that an actual rule?” Beatrix asked, cringing slightly.
“Actually, yes. It’s one of only a few thousand rules for proper etiquette and comportment to be used in polite society.” The Marquess held out his hand for Beatrix to take her seat.
She froze when a servant came forward to hold her chair. Looking from the servant to the Marquess, she was torn. Her sense of shame at having someone serve her in this way was a bitter draught, but she had also agreed to dine with her unwitting host. Beatrix thanked the servant and took her seat, taking care to smooth the folds of the dress that most assuredly was not hers.
“I do wish to say that you look very lovely,” her dinner companion began.
“Thank you. And thank you for the loan of a suitable dress to wear. I’m sure the clothes I arrived in would not have sufficed,” she said, smirking slightly. “Whose dress am I wearing, by the way?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders indifferently. “I only stated that you required a dress to wear to dinner, and someone fetched it.”
“And you don’t care where it came from?” she pressed. He shook his head.
“Why should I be bothered with that?” His tone was very sincere, as though he truly wondered what her response might be.
“How do you know it wasn’t stolen?” Beatrix asked, emphasizing her last word slightly.
“Why on earth would one of my servants steal a dress if I had told them to go get it? Do you think I cannot pay my bills?” He actually laughed for a moment, and Beatrix narrowed her eyes in a keen glare.
“I don’t know that you can pay your bills, now that you’ve brought it up. I don’t even know that you are employed.” She stared at him, wide-eyed, daring him to challenge her doubt. “What exactly does a marquess do?”
“I do a lot of things,” he answered, refusing to take the bait.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you have a great number of interests and hobbies,” Beatrix shot back. “But I meant for a living. What does a marquess do to earn his wealth, rather than merely inherit it well after having the good fortune to choose his parents wisely?”
“First, my wealth—like that of many other members of the peerage—earns interest when others borrow against it. We provide a valuable service to the people. As for employment, I happen to own a vineyard and produce a great quantity of wine each year.”
“Well, you don’t, you mean. You produce nothing. Your laborers actually produce the wine, don’t they?” Beatrix raised an eyebrow, waiting expectantly for an explanation.
“How would the laborers produce the wine if I did not own the vineyard?” he shot back, seeming to b
e amused and enjoying the banter of their conversation. “Would they grow grapes along the sides of the riverbank, harvest them and press them, then sell their fermented product? Who would buy it?”
“Ah, so you’re running a charitable organization by allowing the workers to toil for you endlessly! I see now, what a saint you must be,” she said, scolding him with her wit. “Tell me, if your only role in the operation is to own the entire process, why do you take the lion’s share of the profit?”
“What else would I do?” he asked, confused.
“I should think the profit would be divided and apportioned to each according to how much work he performed. You sit at a desk and sign your name to papers… you must not be worth very much. They break their backs in your service at every season of the year… they should earn a great deal.”
“That is not how business works, I’m afraid,” the Marquess answered rather condescendingly.
“I’m well aware that it’s not. But the only reason it doesn’t work that way is because those who have the power to correct it are the very souls who take all the money and do none of the work.” Beatrix smiled. “But enough of that pleasant chit-chat, what are we to dine on? Beef that your laborers tended and slaughtered then cooked to your liking? Carrots that they pulled from the ground and handed over to you, all because your ancestors have owned this land for a few hundred years?”
“Do you do this with every person you converse with?” he asked, causing Beatrix to wince. She shook her head.
“No, only those who insist on keeping me locked up over a trinket they have somehow misplaced.”
“So you don’t have it,” he conceded. “Yet you refuse to tell me who does have it so that I might retrieve it.”
“It’s as I have already said,” Beatrix explained, keeping her words soft. “To you it is another prized possession, but to my family, it stands for not only their next meal, but their very freedom. Should I tell you who those men were, who I am, then all of our lives are forfeited. And for what? Pray, tell me why this one object is worth the lives of everyone I hold dear. Convince me that my cooperation is worth the price they would pay.”
Callum was silent. The young lady across from him was right, and he’d been so very wrong all this time. There was nothing he could say that would justify the harm that may come to her family, not even something that mattered so much to his mother.
“It is only a trinket, as you have said,” he replied in a stony voice. “It is of no importance after all.”
“That cannot be true,” the woman said kindly. “You would have to be the stupidest man alive to keep me prisoner for days and then change your mind about the whole affair. And you, sir, are many loathsome things… but you are not stupid.”
Callum looked up at her statement and saw the corners of her mouth turn up in a mirthful smile. She so obviously enjoyed taunting him, baiting him with each new utterance. Instead of taking offense, Callum found it refreshing. He’d never conversed with anyone so willing to speak their mind, man or woman.
“I greatly appreciate your assessment of my intelligence,” he answered, but there was very little humor in his tone. Instead, Callum was suddenly resigned to his loss, all of the anger that had driven him thus far having faded away. “But I’m actually feeling rather dull. I’ve treated you horribly, thinking you to be no better than a common thief who runs the streets—”
“Ah, but if I was this common thief, you would be justified in locking me up?” she challenged. “So you are only in the wrong because I’ve proven myself to be witty and somewhat relentless in my conversations with you?”
“No, of course not,” Callum answered, shaking his head. “That is not what I meant, I apologize.”
“Then tell me what you did mean,” she demanded in a low voice. “What justifies you—a man of wealth and title—taking my very freedom from me, a woman of… well, considerably less.”
Callum was silent for another long moment. In truth, he had no answer, but he knew his lack of response was as wrong as his motives.
Beatrix sat back in her chair and waited, watching Callum’s face. “I want to know what this property was, why it was so important.”
“I’ve told you,” he answered, “it doesn’t matter now. There is no excuse for my behavior. I will make it up to you first thing tomorrow.”
“No, that won’t do. I must know,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her and pinning him back with a stare. “I have quite literally nowhere to go this evening, so it matters not if this story is lengthy or short.”
Seeing that she was serious, Callum explained about his mother’s death, the simple headpiece she’d left him, her hopes that it would belong to his wife someday. His sad tale broke into different branches, and before long, Callum realized he’d told this young woman far more than he’d intended.
By the time he’d finished, Beatrix’s eyes appeared to glisten with unshed tears. He finally looked to her and his expression softened.
“I’m so sorry, I did not mean to sadden you,” Callum said. “I remember now that you mentioned you never knew your mother. It is as you once said, at least I had the good fortune of six and twenty years with her when you had none.”
“That does not lessen the pain of your tale,” she answered softly. “I have lived my life by the belief that just because others have it worse, that does not justify any bad things that come our way. We must always strive for good. Therefore, I will help you retrieve what is lost.”
Chapter 15
“All right, Cooke,” Aaron said very slowly, taking care to measure the anger in his voice. “Let’s do it again. Tell us where the fancy man went.”
Pencot, Aaron, and Cooke all sat around the table, peering down at the map that Pencot had drawn. Cooke frowned, trying to concentrate while avoiding falling asleep. It had been two days already, and finally Pencot had come back with a map to help them make sense of Cooke’s directions.
“I’m sorry, sir!” Cooke whined. “But I cannaw tell ya, I’d have to only show ya!”
“But we cannot go to the fancy man’s house without knowing where it is,” Pencot explained, far more patiently than Aaron. “Is it very far? You said you slept a few times on the way there and the way back. How fast do you think you were walking?”
“I tried to run most of the time. Sometimes I had to walk, and one time I saw a hare that was caught in the privet and I stopped to set it free. Oh, but then it scratched me, and me ma always said to wash it good if I got bit or clawed by somethin’ wild, so then I found a stream, and I—”
“Cooke, I cannot keep going in this way. I’m going to have to strangle you if you don’t keep to the story,” Aaron said, slamming his hands upon the table and leaning close to Cooke’s face. “Where is Lady Beatrix?”
“I’m sorry, I’m tryna tell ya!” Cooke cried, actual tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.
“Sir, if I may?” Pencot said, shaking his head slightly and letting his gray hair fall in his eyes. He brushed it back and cocked his head towards the poor addled young man. “Perhaps if I spend some time talking with him, that might prove more helpful?”
Aaron fumed, but finally he nodded. Pencot spoke a few words to the young man and led him outside, giving Aaron room alone with his thoughts. He paced the room, trying to will his anger to subside. But to be so close to finding his beloved daughter while trying to break through the lock of a simple man’s thoughts was maddening, to say the least.
When Pencot finally returned, he shook his head sadly. Aaron noted that he kept his distance lest Aaron thrash him good in his rage.
“I’m sorry, sir. But Cooke cannaw describe it to me, either. So I’ll take him out at first light and we’ll see if he can show me.”
“Good thinking,” Aaron agreed. “Tell the others to make their preparations. We’ll all go.”
“Sir, I do naw think that’s wise. If Cooke is unable to remember it, then we’ve all risked being spotted along the road. If he can sho
w me, we’ll come back here straight away and prepare to ride.”
Pencot waited silently for Aaron to think that over, and he breathed a soft sigh of relief when Aaron nodded.
“Tis a good plan. Strike out early in the morning, before the sun has even risen, so that you can hope to return tomorrow evening. Take care to note the landmarks along the way so you can remember it.”
“Aye, sir. And don’t be worried. I’m certain Cooke knows that of which he saw, but only cannaw tell us,” Pencot said, trying to reassure Aaron.
“I’ll stop my worrying when my daughter is safely home to me, and not a moment before,” Aaron reminded him darkly. “But thank you for your searching, Pencot. I am desperate to go myself, but I cannaw barely move on this leg.”
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