‘Tell me, Bea.’ He sounded more like her friend. ‘No more prevaricating. Why won’t you go back?’
‘Go back to what? Society will pillory me for this. There is no place for me. Why would I return to a place where there is only shame? There is no life for me there.’
‘And there is a life for you here?’ Preston questioned.
‘Yes! No one looks at me with condemnation. My son is accepted. No one calls him a bastard.’
‘Because you’ve spun them a lie. May has told me all about it. How long do you think your “husband” can stay at sea?’
‘Until he dies. Merchants abroad for trade do die, you know. Mysterious illness, lightning-fast fevers. There’s a hundred perils that might come up.’ It sounded cold hearted even to her and she’d made the fiction up in the first place months ago when she’d arrived.
Preston gave a humourless laugh. ‘You are a bloodthirsty creature, Beatrice. Your poor husband is expendable, then?’
‘Yes,’ Beatrice answered simply. She’d be a grieving widow. It was the best of both worlds. No one would shun her son and no one would expect her to remarry after having loved and lost her devoted husband. It would be good protection for them both. Her son would have the shield of a dead father and she would have the shelter of widowhood.
‘Then what?’ Preston pressed on, his voice low. ‘You can’t stay even if your fiction holds. Your parents will cut you off.’ He paused with a sigh. ‘Forgive me, Beatrice. It pains me to say such things, but they are the truth and it is the message I am charged to deliver. I am the polite option. You may return with me of your own accord, or be burned out, so to speak. There will be no more money to pay for your keep. How long can you infringe on the Maddoxes without it?’
Beatrice looked out over the fields, taking a moment to gather her thoughts, to recover from this latest sally against her fortress. Hadn’t she expected such a manoeuvre? ‘I have prepared for such an eventuality.’ It wasn’t untrue. She and May had planned for it. They’d vowed together back in the autumn never to return to England, even if their allowances were cut, even if they lost the hospitality of her relative’s cottage on loan. So much had changed since the autumn, though. Her plans had not been laid expecting the cottage to be lost to fire or May being forced to flee with Liam, leaving her alone. Could she manage their schemes on her own?
‘I have some money set aside. I saved part of the allowance every month.’ She forged on bravely, outlining her plans. ‘I have found a small cottage to rent. I can grow herbs and bake bread to sell in the market. There is no school teacher here. I can tutor children, teach them to read in exchange for whatever I need.’ The plans sounded meagre when she voiced them out loud, fanciful and desperate.
To his credit, he did not mock her. Preston gave a brief nod. ‘Your efforts are commendable.’ But she knew what he was thinking. They were her thoughts, too. Was she really willing to commit her financial well-being to the caprices of barter and trade? Not just hers, but her son’s, too. What if it wasn’t enough? But it had to be. The risk in going home was too great. It wasn’t just the shame that kept her here. She could face the shame for herself. There were other fears, bigger fears.
‘I won’t let them take my son,’ Beatrice said with quiet force. This was the real fear, the one that had plagued her since her pregnancy: that her parents would snatch the child away, placing it with a family somewhere in England where she’d never find him again. That fear rose now. Had Preston come with more in mind than simply retrieving her? ‘I will not give him to you.’
Her family had chosen their messenger well, perhaps presuming on her friendship with him to let down her guard. They would find she was not so easily manipulated. Preston might be her old friend, but she would fight him, would make him the enemy if he thought to take the baby from her.
‘Never, Bea. How could you think that?’ The suggestion horrified him, breaking through the harshness. He was her friend once more. But they both knew how she dared to think it. It was what well-bred families did to erase the stain of scandal, to pretend the sin had never occurred. Preston reached for her hand and squeezed it, his grip strong and reassuring. ‘I give you my word, Beatrice, I will not allow the two of you to be separated. I am your parents’ messenger, Bea, not that it pleases me, but I am your friend. May and I have seen to it that your wishes are represented in this. We have made it clear that you expect to raise your son at Maidenstone.’ He spoke as if her acquiescence was inevitable. Maybe it was.
Maidenstone. The family home. Oh, he didn’t fight fair! Generations of Penroses had romped there, grown up there. There was no place like Maidenstone in the spring and the summer, the gardens full of wildflowers and roses. The thought of Maidenstone made her heart ache with nostalgia. Images of her son growing up there were powerful lures indeed. To show him the trails she’d walked, the lake, all of it, would be a wonderful joy. The allure must have shown on her face.
‘Maidenstone is his heritage, Bea. Would you deny your son what is his in exchange for raising him in near poverty? Life here will not be economically easy without your parents’ support.’ Preston was relentless in pointing out the realities of her situation. ‘Winters will be hard. Even more so without the resources you had this year.’ She knew that. She’d already lived through one winter without a home of her own. She redoubled her resolve. She had to hold firm. May and Preston meant well, but promises could be broken.
‘He is a male Penrose, Bea. Surely you see how that changes everything.’ Preston pressed his case more thoroughly now, moving from the philosophical considerations to more practical ones that unfortunately resonated with her logical side. ‘It is his protection. You have given your parents a grandson. He can inherit the Penrose land, the wealth. Maidenstone could be his.’
‘That is a fool’s dream. Do you think I haven’t thought of that?’ She had, of course, when she lay awake late at night worrying over the future. ‘It would be better for him to never know, to never suffer the disappointment of what might have been.’ Beatrice spoke honestly. ‘Society will call him a bastard. I would not wish that on him. Better for him to grow up here and learn a trade, find his own way in a world of his making than to hover on the fringes of a world that doesn’t want him, always on the outside.’
Preston’s response was quick and impatient. ‘Not if he’s recognised. Your father can choose to recognise him. It would even be better if your son’s father recognised him. You could give your parents the name of the father. He could be found and brought to account.’
Bea stiffened at the mention of the father. Malvern Alton. A deserter of women. A man who cared only for himself and for his pleasure. He had not cared for her any more than he’d cared for the consequences of their actions. It had taken her a while to recognise and accept the bounder for what he was—a rake of the worst order. For months, she’d clung to the illusion that he’d loved her and the hope that he’d come back. But now that she saw him clearly, any mention of Malvern Alton had to be met with the strongest of defences. She wanted nothing of him in her life. He didn’t know of her son and she wanted it to stay that way. He would be even less of a father than he’d been a lover. Not that the courts of England would agree with her. Nobly born fathers held influence if they exerted themselves to claim custody. If Alton wanted her son, he could force her hand. The very thought made her shiver. She struggled to keep her voice even. ‘No. I will not force a man who does not want me into marriage any more than I would force myself into marriage simply to appease society’s dictates.’
It wasn’t just Malvern she wouldn’t marry. It was any of them—any man willing to take her and her son. Such a situation would be disastrous, it would sentence them all to a life of unhappiness. Another fear rose, threatening the calm she’d fought so hard to win. ‘Don’t you see, that too is a reason I can’t go back. I will not go to London and seek a husband so that society c
an be appeased.’ Marriage—that was the other thing well-bred families did to erase the stain. She’d not put it past her own family to do the same.
They’d barter her off to a man willing to overlook her sin and her son and she would pay for that every day. That sort of man would lord it over her and her son, making them feel grateful for even the merest of considerations from him. She met Preston’s gaze, studying him for the truth. ‘Are there plans for me to marry? Is that why you’ve come now? To take me to London for the Season?’ She could imagine nothing worse—a social hell to rival Dante’s. No, that wasn’t quite true. She could imagine one thing worse—coming face to face with Malvern Alton again, especially now that she had her son to protect. While she was in Scotland, there was little chance of that happening. Alton liked his luxuries. There were few luxuries here.
Preston lowered his voice and leaned his head close to hers in confidence, his gaze earnest. She could smell the scent of horse and sweat mingled with wind and sandalwood on him. ‘There are currently no plans to marry you off to anyone.’ Evening shadows were starting to fall, long and sure across the fields. They’d talked away the afternoon. Resistance, refusal and refutation were all exhausted and still there was no resolution.
‘Come to Little Westbury, go home to Maidenstone. I won’t pretend it will be easy, but you should try. For your son’s sake. He should be raised among friends and we’ll all be there, waiting for you,’ Preston urged one last time. It was the third time he’d asked since this conversation had begun. Intuitively, she knew he would not ask again.
‘I choose to stay,’ Beatrice said firmly. Here, she was safe, not just from Alton, but from all danger, all men.
Preston bowed his head in a curt nod. ‘Then you leave me no choice.’ It was an ultimatum.
‘That makes us even. You’ve left me with none either.’ It was bravado at best. If she ran, where would she run to? To whom?
‘I will come in the morning with the carriage in the hopes you will have reconsidered the nature of your exit.’ The words left her cold. The idea that she had no choices left wasn’t not the same as his. He was merely forced now to take action. But she was forced to the opposite—to take no action, to acquiesce. To surrender. For now. Perhaps it was not so much a surrender as a retreat. She was Beatrice Penrose. She would survive this.
Chapter Two
It could have been worse, Preston mused an hour down the road, the little village on the Firth firmly behind them. He could have actually had to bodily carry Beatrice out of the farmhouse. He’d more than half-expected to after their conversation the day before. He was glad he didn’t have to. His shoulders were up to it, but his mind wasn’t.
If it was up to him, he would have left her in Scotland. He knew all too well how it felt to be forced into an unwelcome destiny. Wasn’t the very same fate waiting for him upon his return? Hadn’t it already begun years ago when he’d been denied the chance to go to war for his country all because of his birth? He keenly felt the hypocrisy of being sent to retrieve Beatrice to resume a life she no longer wanted and force her to it if he must, when he, too, railed against such strictures. Would her rebellion be as futile as his had been thus far?
Preston studied her, her dark head bent slightly as she read, the baby quietly asleep in his basket on the floor. She was still the Beatrice he knew. There was still in her the girl he’d grown up with who romped the hills and valleys of Little Westbury with long strides, carrying a basket to collect herbs and plants during their hikes. But there was a difference to her now.
Motherhood had changed her, Scotland had changed her. Freedom had changed her. There was an air of serenity about her, moments of softness, and yet there was a fierceness to her that hadn’t been there before. Beatrice had always been a strong personality, always the first to speak up against injustice, sometimes too rashly. He remembered the butcher in the village and the time Beatrice had caught the man cheating a poor woman out of fresh meat. That strength had permutated into something even fiercer than it had once been. Of course, she had something, someone, to protect now.
He’d seen that fierceness on display yesterday. She’d been formidable in her defence and he’d seen her point. Life in Little Westbury would be financially secure, but it would be difficult. She’d deduced correctly that her parents were eager to put the past year behind them, not necessarily by embracing it, but by erasing it.
Beatrice looked up from her reading and smiled tightly, acknowledging his gaze but nothing more as her eyes returned to her pages. She hadn’t spoken to him since she’d set foot in the carriage. She was still mad. At him. He understood. She blamed him for this disruption in her life. But there was something else he more rightly deserved the blame for.
Preston felt the guilt return. It had plagued him since he’d ridden away yesterday. It wasn’t his fault she had to come home. That decision lay firmly at the feet of her parents. However, it might possibly be his fault she was in the carriage under somewhat false pretences. He’d told the truth. He and May had advocated the baby be raised at Maidenstone and there were no plans to marry Beatrice off to anyone specifically. He knew the conclusion Beatrice had drawn from that last piece of information: she’d be allowed to stay in Little Westbury, in seclusion. She wouldn’t be forced to go to London and endure a Season. That was where he had not bothered to correct her assumptions.
There was always the chance she wouldn’t mind. That was the balm his conscience had fallen asleep to last night. Once she got home, she might want to go to London. Evie and Dimitri would be there. May and Liam would be there. There was Liam’s knighthood ceremony to look forward to. Surely, London’s allures would be too appealing to resist. The baby stirred and he watched Beatrice’s gaze go directly to the little bundle, her expression soft as she looked at her sleeping son.
No. Preston knew instinctively his hopes were futile. London had no allure that could compete with the contents of that basket. There was no question of the baby going to London. It was hard to catch husbands with babies clinging to one’s skirts. The baby would have to stay behind and Beatrice would never forgive him for that.
The thought of earning Beatrice’s enmity sat poorly with him. He’d argued against being sent on this mission from the start. He’d not wanted to do the Penroses’ dirty work, but neither had he wanted someone less sensitive to Beatrice’s preferences to come in his place. In the end, it was that which had persuaded him to accept, although he’d feared this duty would risk Beatrice’s friendship. That, and the idea this trip was one last reprieve from the new responsibilities that waited for him. If it hadn’t been for this journey, he’d already be at his grandmother’s estate in Shoreham-by-the-Sea, picking up the reins of his inheritance, reins that tugged him in the direction of a landowning gentleman far sooner than he was ready to accept them. Becoming a landowning gentleman was much more bucolic than his current position as the head of coastal patrol. Having an estate that needed him would put an end to his patrol work and to any ambitions he held beyond that. He wasn’t ready for bucolic and all it entailed. He pushed the thoughts away and focused on Beatrice.
‘Are you truly not going to speak to me for an entire week?’ Preston crossed his long legs, attempting to stretch a bit in the cramped space without kicking the baby’s basket.
Beatrice gave him a cool glance. ‘A week? That’s quite optimistic. I intend to not speak to you far longer than that.’
Preston nudged the toe of her shoe, unable to resist the boyish response. ‘You just did. Guess you’ll have to start over.’
Beatrice put down her book in exasperation. ‘You’re acting like a thirteen-year-old.’
Preston grinned. ‘It takes one to know one. I figured giving someone the silent treatment deserved an equal and appropriate response.’ He managed to tease a smile from her with the remark. ‘We both know you aren’t going to hate me for ever.’ At least he
hoped not. ‘Why don’t you forgive me now and get it over with? This trip will be a lot more interesting with someone to talk to, especially if that someone is you.’
He gave her a boyish smile before he turned serious. ‘If it’s any consolation, I didn’t want to do it, Bea. May told me how happy you were here. But if it wasn’t me, it would have been someone else.’ Preston shook his head, letting the gesture say what he could not put into words. ‘I just couldn’t let someone else come. That’s not what a friend does, even when there’s bad news to deliver.’ Would she understand it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done? He who had faced gun runners and arms dealers in dark alleys, taken knives to the gut rather like she was taking the proverbial blade now.
Beatrice relented. He saw it in her eyes first, the dark depths softening as she began to see this journey from his perspective. She reached out a hand and squeezed his. ‘Thank you for being the one. I doubt I could have borne it otherwise.’ It was settled. They could be friends once more for a few weeks at least until he needed to beg her forgiveness again.
‘Good.’ Preston settled back against the squabs with satisfaction. ‘Now that’s out of the way, I can tell you about the latest letter from Jonathon and Claire.’
She tossed him a teasingly accusing glare. ‘You were holding out on me yesterday.’ Bea gave his knee a playful swat and just like that they were the people he remembered them to be.
‘Ouch! A good negotiator always holds something back.’ Preston feigned injury with a laugh. ‘Do you want to hear or not?’
‘Of course I want to hear.’ Beatrice bent down to pick up her son, awakened by their banter. She put the baby to her breast with consummate ease, unbothered by the loudness of the baby’s waking squall or the confines of the carriage that put them in such close proximity—a proximity, which to his mind, made the act of nursing seem more personal than it had yesterday.
Marrying the Rebellious Miss Page 2
