by Abigail Agar
“I mean in regards to my skills,” he said with a laugh.
“Yes, that is what I was referring to. You are no better or worse than you said,” she told him, teasingly.
“Well, that is a relief to know. My self-awareness is accurate, don’t you think?” he asked.
“Perfectly so. I do hope that I did justice to my own mediocrity?” she asked, referring to her skills with the dance.
“Self-awareness is a trait that we share,” he said, confirming her suspicion and continuing in the mood of light and easy interaction.
Lord Hawthorn was amusing. Beatrice had always hoped that she would find love with a man who made her laugh. She had always hoped for the sort of marriage that held joy and humour in it.
Certainly, she had not expected this many obstacles in finding the man that she would marry. Still, she was not sure what was to come. She felt as though Isla was on her side; that she would take a stand when the time was right. But what if Lord Hawthorn was not able to approve of the decision? What if he found it disagreeable to end the engagement?
“Your friend and mine, I do believe they are the better dancers,” Lord Hawthorn said.
“There is no questioning that,” Beatrice said.
“In that case, let us ignore them and focus on what we are skilled at. You, for instance, have music,” he said.
“And you have charm,” she replied.
“Is that a skill or a trait?” he asked.
“I believe it to be both. Charm as a trait is merely…charming. As a skill, however, it is useful,” she said.
“Do you mean that I might use it to manipulate things to my will?” he asked.
“If you so choose. But I cannot imagine that you would,” she told him.
“Then you would be right. I am lost as a manipulator. I find the whole act unseemly,” Lord Hawthorn said.
“As do I. I only fear that we live in the world’s capital for manipulation,” Beatrice said.
“Ah, yes. England. The grand home of gossip and the utilisation of men and women for whatever the rich and powerful desire,” he said.
“That is certainly one way to look at it,” Beatrice said.
“Then we must look to our own homes to fight against it. For instance, you have a mother, a father, and two sisters, am I correct?” he asked.
“Yes, My Lord,” Beatrice replied, not knowing where he meant to go with this question.
“Well, do you find your family home to be one of comfort or one of manipulation?” he asked, spinning her under his arm.
“My home? There was no manipulation to be had,” she replied.
“So, you see? Your family did well. In my home, however, all decisions were made for the greater good of England,” he said.
“That sounds rather exhausting,” Beatrice said.
“I was. But I choose not to live that way any longer, Miss Cloud. I do believe that the time has come that I shall make decisions based on what I believe to be best for my own life,” he said.
They moved with ease, enjoying each moment. It was easier than she had anticipated, dancing in his arms. And that was the moment that Beatrice realised that there was no more falling in love.
She had already fallen.
It was not a question or a process any longer. It was simply the state that she was in.
She took in the sight of his eyes and allowed herself the peace of knowing what she truly wanted. Never before had she allowed herself to consider it as fully as she did in that moment.
She wanted this.
She wanted him.
“I believe we have been talking so much that we have hardly even noticed our own steps, My Lord. Are we dancing properly or not?” she asked, laughing.
“I haven’t the faintest idea anymore, but you appear to be doing well enough,” Lord Hawthorn replied.
He was so close to her that Beatrice wondered if anything was truly separating them. Did the air exist? It felt as though it had been sucked from the room. So did all the people.
It was just the two of them now. Beatrice in the grandest gown she could possibly have fathomed and Lord Hawthorn looking fine in his coattails and with the sideburns that were not extreme, but certainly more pronounced than those of any other man in the room.
The music came to a crescendo and finally began to settle. The dance was at an end. She would no longer be in his arms.
Lord Hawthorn let her go, his fingers releasing her with a slow difficulty. She knew, knew it with confidence, that he did not wish to leave her any more than she wished to be parted from him.
It was an agony.
“Well, it would seem that the dance has concluded,” he said.
“Yes, so it has,” she said, unable to make the eye contact that would betray her sadness.
“I know that we may not dance together again this night, but maybe at another time,” he said.
“Perhaps. We do not know when the next ball shall be and I am unlikely to be granted permission to attend. But I thank you for this wonderful dance. Truly,” Beatrice said.
“I shall insist upon your attendance,” Lord Hawthorn said, his tone filled with determination.
“You may not have a say, My Lord. A ball that is not in your home? What host would invite a governess? Besides that, there is the fact that my employer will not likely permit me to attend another ball such as this. He made this concession at your behest, but I do not expect it again,” Beatrice said.
“Then what am I to do?” Lord Hawthorn asked.
“The same as I, My Lord. You shall move on, enjoy your life, be happy. You shall dance with the woman that you marry and you shall be grateful for her beauty and kindness and forget that you ever so much as spoke with another woman. Not another friend, not your mother, not a cousin. Lady Seton shall be everything to you,” Beatrice said, suddenly overwhelmed by her hopelessness all over again.
“I cannot do that,” he said.
“Why not?” Beatrice asked.
Lord Seton opened his mouth to speak, but he was hesitant.
“Y-you know,” he said.
“Know what?” she asked, daring him to say it.
“You know why I cannot forget you, why I cannot forget our dance,” he said. “You know why I cannot be happy in my impending marriage.”
Beatrice had wanted him to say it, but she had not been prepared for the moment that he actually did.
“You do not know what it is you say, My Lord,” she told him.
“I think I know very well,” he replied, looking into her eyes.
Beatrice felt that he was searching, hoping to find her affections in his gaze. But she could not give him that. She would not force him to end the engagement and she would not allow him to be so bold with her until he had. It wasn’t right. She would not be the sort of woman who flirted with a man who was already committed to another woman.
“Thank you for the dance, Lord Hawthorn. It was lovely,” she said.
There was hurt in his eyes, a look that he did not want to let her go, that he wanted her to beg him for another dance rather than turn away from him. But she knew that she could not do that. She could not give into what they both desired.
But their time was cut short when a woman who had the same blue eyes of Lord Hawthorn drew near.
“M-Mother! Ah, there you are,” he said, looking nervously between Beatrice and his mother.
“Good evening, Lady Hawthorn,” Beatrice immediately said, curtseying low. She had not been prepared for this moment and it took all her effort not to teeter from her anxiety as she raised herself up again.
“Good evening. I did not catch your name,” she said.
“This is Miss Cloud, Mother,” Lord Hawthorn said.
Lady Hawthorn eyed her up and down and Beatrice could feel the weight of her judgments. She wondered if Lady Hawthorn had any idea who she was.
“Miss? Strange. I did not know that there were any guests in attendance who were not lord and ladies,” she said.
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br /> “There are many, Mother,” Lord Hawthorn said.
After a moment of extreme tension, Lady Hawthorn finally cracked a smile and appeared to be more at ease.
“Well, then, it is very nice to meet you, Miss Cloud. I must say that you have a stunning gown. What excellent taste you have!” she said.
“Thank you, My Lady. I am most fortunate to have the opportunity to wear it. And the dressmaker is quite skilled. My dear friend, Lady Seton, recommended him,” Beatrice said.
“A friend of Lady Seton’s, are you?” she asked.
“Indeed, My Lady,” Beatrice replied.
“Well, well, the plot thickens,” she said, rather mysteriously.
Beatrice wondered what she meant by that. Did she know anything about Beatrice? Was there something that Beatrice had missed? She looked to Lord Hawthorn with questions in her eyes, but he betrayed nothing.
“You are beautiful, but I am curious what else there is to you,” Lady Hawthorn said, testing her.
“I fear that I am rather dull, My Lady,” Beatrice said with a humble laugh.
“She is anything but, Mother. Miss Cloud is the most exquisite pianist I have ever heard. Her music moves one in a way that touches the soul more than the ears,” Lord Hawthorn said.
“And apparently she also brings the poet out of my son. Miss Cloud, you must be truly remarkable to do that,” Lady Hawthorn said.
Beatrice laughed.
“Miss Cloud, I should like to see more of you throughout the evening. As it is, Lady Williamson is ushering me, but I shall find you at a later time. Do not forget,” she said.
“Yes, My Lady,” Beatrice replied.
With that, Lady Hawthorn departed from them, but Beatrice was certain there would be more to come in her interactions with the woman. Still she was not aware that Beatrice was a mere governess. At least, she had not seemed to know.
“My mother was very eager to meet you,” Lord Hawthorn said.
“Oh? I am surprised you have spoken of me at all,” Beatrice said.
“I have spoken about you a great deal this evening,” he replied. “But I understand that a ball is not an event at which one may spend their whole time dancing with the same person, or speaking with only one guest.”
“No, that would be quite scandalous,” she replied.
They eyed one another for a moment before Beatrice realised it was her turn to end the conversation.
“Well, thank you for the introduction to your mother. She is lovely. I look forward to seeing more of her, and also of yourself, throughout the evening,” she said.
Beatrice pulled herself from him. She gave a curtsy and turned away.
But as she did so, she saw none other than Lord Seton eyeing her with suspicion.
He had been watching them the entire time. That much was clear.
In that moment, Beatrice felt panic welling up inside of her. She wondered what he would say, what he would do.
What if he forced her to stay away from Lord Hawthorn? Would he prevent her from living the life that was so close to her grasp? Would he stop her from that happiness?
She took a deep breath and took her eyes away from him, understanding that, more than likely, he was still watching her. And although Beatrice wondered if Lord Hawthorn had seen that they had been watched, she suspected that he had not. Otherwise, she would not be the only one slinking away from the floor, guilty and ashamed.
She would have to watch her step. She would have to be very careful from that moment forward. If she allowed herself to have even something small that she wanted, he might bring it all crashing down upon her.
Indeed, she would have to refrain from doing as she pleased.
Even if it meant spending the rest of the evening away from Lord Hawthorn, she would have to make whatever sacrifices necessary to keep her employer appeased.
She wondered if he had seen his daughter with Lord Beckridge. And if he had, did he approve?
Or was he going to be the one to destroy the hope they all had? Was this the end of everything they had ever wanted?
Chapter 32
“It was lovely to meet you, Miss Cloud. And you should know that you do your dressmaker credit,” Lady Winston said, bringing the conversation to a close.
Beatrice had been meeting all sorts of fantastic women throughout the evening. Lady Winston had been, perhaps, her favourite of them all.
Significantly aged, bedecked in more jewels than any queen, she was nearly a comical sight but for her obvious kindness.
No one seemed to realise that Beatrice was not one of them, save for the fact that she introduced herself as ‘Miss’, whereas the majority of them had titles and so forth. Still, for the evening she was simply a guest; a friend of Lady Seton, of Lord Hawthorn, and of Lord Beckridge.
So, when she had commenced her conversation with Lady Winston, there had been no question that Beatrice belonged.
She saw Isla standing nearby, finishing a conversation as well. She made her way over, excited to talk about the many interactions that she’d had throughout the evening.
“Is this not the most splendid thing you can imagine?” she asked Isla.
“It is! Of course it is. And you look lovely,” Isla said.
“Thank you. It is all thanks to you. This gown, oh, Isla! Thank you for all of it. For taking my measurements to have it made, for choosing such a stunning combination of accents, and—of course—for your financial assistance,” Beatrice said, blushing at the last part.
She had only been able to contribute a small fraction of what the gown had cost and it was Isla’s generosity which had covered the rest.
“It is my greatest pleasure, Beatrice. Now, how was your dance with Lord Hawthorn?” Isla asked.
Beatrice’s heart quickened.
“Aside from the fact that it was too long ago? Well, Lord Hawthorn is actually a wonderful dancer. Not in grace of movement or any of the qualities that are sought out in a dancer, but in his natural calm,” Beatrice said.
“Oh, I am so glad to hear that. It is such a shame that you have already danced together,” Isla said.
“Yes, I know. I wish that we could dance more, but it would be unseemly,” Beatrice said.
Isla looked at her with mischief in her eyes.
“What is it? What have you done?” Beatrice asked.
“Well, I may have danced a bit more than that,” Isla said, laughing.
“With whom? And how much?” she asked.
“With Lord Hawthorn, I have danced twice. Three is the limit, seeing as we are engaged. But I also danced with Lord Beckridge twice. I know that it was wrong of me, but I could hardly help myself,” Isla said.
It would have been a scandal to think that she had danced with Lord Beckridge twice already. He was a man to whom she was not engaged, and her betrothed was standing nearby.
