Peering intently through the pane of glass, her memory of the felines and Arthur’s boyish smile when he held them seemed real once again. Could a dear memory feel real, feel like it was happening? She was far away in a world that no longer existed, so intent upon the recollection that she did not hear the heavy footsteps behind her until the person responsible for them spoke.
“Miss Beatrice! Come away from that window at once! You’re far too old to be acting like a child.”
All thoughts of the little cat and her family were suddenly gone, vanished like a memory, as Beatrice squeaked as she jumped. “Oh! You scared me to death, Gertie!”
“That serves you right, acting like you are. You’re sixteen now; it is high time you started acting like a young lady.”
Beatrice sighed. There was no use arguing with her mother’s faithful nurse and companion, Miss Gertrude Chisolm. Gertie, as she was affectionately known by Beatrice, now that she was older, was a rather rotund woman, who was neither young nor terribly old. Beatrice recalled that Gertie may have been nearing her thirtieth year, or was she older? It was difficult for her to tell, as Gertie did not appear to age in the years she had been in service to Beatrice’s family. With her unruly red curls, pink cheeks, and full figure, Gertie could have been almost any age. To Beatrice, she was Gertie and always would be. She was also one of the few people whose censure Beatrice heeded, which had not changed since Beatrice was a child.
“Gertie, you do not understand. Martha, my maid, told me that Arthur’s family has arrived. I was hoping to get a glimpse of him.”
“Proper young ladies pay calls on families in their acquaintance, Miss. Proper young ladies don’t hang about in windows spying. What if he should see you, acting like you are, improper and bold as brass!”
“I’m not a proper young lady yet, am I? I cannot pay a call on his family. Remember? His mother outranks mine, I cannot just go about knocking on the door and expect to be received until his mother pays a visit to us, and you know how she is about such matters. The last time we were in Bath, she waited until Arthur had to practically threaten to run away and join the Navy!”
Gertie rolled her eyes as she replied, “You know perfectly his mother suffers from poor health. You must be patient. You are far too old to behave as if decorum doesn’t matter.”
“What do I care one whit about boring rules and decorum rubbish? It never bothered me when I was a child. I used to play in his garden with Arthur all the time, do you not remember?” Beatrice said as she put her hand on her hip.
"Don't you think you can tell me anything about the rules. I didn't make them, and neither did you. If you want to have a good reputation, to find a husband, you're going to have to pay a whole lot more attention to those same rules, and soon, I’ll wager. I heard your mother talking with your father about when you would come out in society; it’s not much longer now, miss.”
“Oh, why can it not be today, right now? Arthur is six years older than me. If I was already out in society, we could be married!” Beatrice exclaimed.
Gertie laughed. “I do not mean to be disagreeable, young miss, but it takes more than being out in society to secure the regard of a gentleman.”
Beatrice turned back to the window, and she stood on her toes. Opening the window, she leaned out as far as she dared. There, in the garden, was a familiar figure, standing under the graceful limbs of an oak tree.
“Gertie, he is here! Look, I tell you he is here! Tell Mama I have gone for a stroll in the garden.”
“Miss Beatrice, take your bonnet if you insist on this terrible display of behavior.”
“I do not have time to find my bonnet, not when Arthur is here!”
As Beatrice rushed past Gertrude, Gertie reached out and stopped her gently wrapping her fleshy hand around Beatrice’s thin arm. “Miss, you can’t call him Arthur anymore. To you and me, he’s Lord Norwich or His Grace. Remember that.”
Beatrice nodded her head, but she did not concern herself with proper forms of address. Arthur had arrived in Bath at long last; he was here, and that was all that mattered. Racing downstairs, she rushed out of the back door leading to the garden. Outside, it was a bright, beautiful day in May. The grass was green, matching the leaves of the bushes and the trees in the walled enclosure of the garden. A path led to a small stone seating arrangement and a wooden bench beside a low stone wall. Rushing to the bench, she lifted the embroidered muslin of her spring dress as she climbed on the seat.
The warm breeze rustled the limbs of the enormous old oak that shaded both the gardens of her family’s residence and the one next door, owned by Arthur and his mother. The breeze smelled like jasmine and a hundred other fragrant flowers as it blew through the stands of blond hair that had come free from the careful pinned Grecian hairstyle that Beatrice favored.
There across the wall, sitting under the oak, was the gentleman she loved. He was perfect in every way in her eyes. His dark hair fell in waves trimmed above his ears, his jawline was strong; his eyes were as gray as stormy weather. In the warmth of the day, his jacket lay haphazardly on the chair beside him, his muscled arms encased in a white shirt and grey waistcoat. She could stare at this perfect portrait of manhood for days, but her heart could not contain its excitement.
“Arthur!” she called out. “Arthur!”
He closed the book he held in his hand as he turned to face her. How handsome he looked in the afternoon light. She longed to tell him what she thought, but she was not permitted. Ladies did not go about throwing themselves at gentlemen, it simply was not proper.
“Beatrice, is that you? My how you have changed since the last time I saw you. When was it, the season before last?”
“Two years have gone by since we last spoke. Shall I come over or would you care to join me, we could have tea? There is so much I wish to tell you.”
He smiled at her, as he said, “There is much I wish to tell you, as well. I missed seeing you last year, your family did not come to Bath at the end of the season.”
“No, my father’s business affairs kept us away, but his gout has returned, and Mama’s poor health plagues her still, but here we are. How is your mother? Is her health much improved?”
“No, she is the same as ever, but she bears it well.”
Beatrice was eager to be close to Arthur, to be in his presence. “Shall I clamber over the wall as I once did when we were children? Do you recall how I could climb the wall far better than you?”
“That is because you have never been concerned with formality, my dear. I wish I could say the same,”
“Beatrice!”
“It sounds like someone is calling for you. Is that your mother’s voice?” he asked.
“It is, she and Gertie keep trying to ensure I avoid doing anything childish, but I am not a child,” she said from her perch.
“No, you are not a child, from my vantage point I can see that you have grown into a free-spirited young woman,” he said, as he reopened his book. “You must not keep your mother waiting.”
Beatrice felt confused as she stared at Arthur who had turned his attention back to the book in his hand. He did not suggest a time when he would be available for a walk or tea, he did not insist on seeing her again. How different he had become since they were children. She remembered how she would climb over the wall, and they would play together or the hours they spent reading and drawing, playing games and cards. It was two years since she saw him last. Not a day had gone by that she had not dreamed of the moment she would see him again. She was so thrilled to see him, so happy she could feel it in her bones, in her breath, in every heartbeat. He seemed pleased to see her, but in a way that one addressed an acquaintance. She tried to make sense of what she witnessed, but her mother was calling.
“Beatrice, come down from there at once! Why do you insist on trying to vex me in my terrible condition? Come down, I say!"
Beatrice climbed down from the bench, tears welling in her blue eyes. Why did Arthur treat her like
he did? Why when she was overjoyed to see him again?
“Beatrice, come into the house at once. Imagine if the Dowager Duchess saw you acting like that with her son. How would that appear, I ask you?”
Reluctantly, Beatrice followed her mother into the house. Wiping away a tear, she thought about what her mother said, about the Dowager Duchess seeing her acting like a child. What if there was truth to what her mother said? What if that was the reason for Arthur’s coolness towards her. Perhaps, he was thinking about their future together as she did, that he wished for his mother to approve of Beatrice as a wife.
When Beatrice thought of the Dowager Duchess of Norwich, Arthur’s mother, she didn’t have very many fond memories. The woman was nearly always frowning or scowling at her, as though Arthur had brought in a stray animal of some kind. Maybe Gertie and her mother were right, Beatrice needed to behave like a proper young woman if she was ever to become a duchess. Feeling better, she held her head up high, carefully sliding the stray strands of hair back behind her ears before she smoothed the wrinkles from her dress. If she was going to be Arthur’s wife, to become the next Duchess of Norwich, she had better act like it. Feeling much better, she glanced over her shoulder at the garden wall, thinking about the time when a wall would no longer separate her from Arthur.
4
For two days, Beatrice stared out the window of the second-floor landing, but she didn’t see Arthur again. Where could he be? She had made every excuse to stroll in the garden, walk along the tree-lined street of the Royal Crescent, and accompany her mother to the Pump Room in search of Arthur, but still, she had yet to see him again. She spent her hours in happy contemplation of the time when she would see him. The remainder of the time, she visited the treasures she kept stored away in a carved wooden box. Inside the box was a cache of notes, written in Arthur’s own hand. The notes were accompanied by a small book of poems that he gave to her for her birthday, stones she collected from the garden path they walked, and a feather of a hawk he presented her with when she was twelve.
Recalling the details of their past days spent together did not assuage her of the curiosity of the present, where was he? Why did he not send for her? He just arrived in Bath when she encountered him in the garden, where could he have gone in such a short time? According to Martha, neither Arthur nor the Dowager Duchess had left from the residence aside from carriage rides to take tea or play cards at the Assembly Rooms. Why did he not send her a note like he did when they were children, to wait for her outside in the garden?
Maybe, she concluded, he didn’t want to do anything that wasn’t proper. Proper young men and women didn’t clamber over walls or send secret messages. They met in ballrooms and at card tables. If only she was old enough to attend balls, she could see him in a setting that was approved by his mother and her own. It wasn’t fair, she lamented to herself as she moped around the townhouse. It wasn’t fair that she should have to wait when her friends Emily and Jane back home in Kent were out in society.
“Beatrice, come down for tea!” Gertie said as she knocked on the door of Beatrice’s room. The room like the remainder of the house was grandly appointed befitting the wealthy Edmundson family. Beatrice’s father was a tobacco merchant, a man who, by his wealth, was admitted into Bath society despite his lack of title. It was in the city of Bath that the classes intermingled with far greater freedom than was enjoyed in London, or so Gertie explained to Beatrice as she tried to remind her of her place in society compared to Arthur.
“Miss Beatrice, are you still dreaming away the hours filled with fancies about the young duke?”
“What if I am? His rank means little to me. Gertie, is he not the most dashing gentleman you have ever beheld? How well we will look together when we stroll in the park.”
“Miss, you must forget these stories you have spun for yourself. Do you not understand that dukes don’t marry the daughters of merchants?”
“Why not?” Beatrice asked defiantly.
“I can’t really say why they just don’t. If you must know the truth, that’s just the way of the world. Titled lords and ladies marry others just like themselves. The rich marry the rich; the poor marry the poor.”
“My father is rich, and so is Arthur. Does that mean, we can be wed?”
“No, it most certainly does not. He’s a duke; he’s almost royalty. You, my dear, are the only daughter of a wealthy businessman. It’s by chance that you are even in the acquaintance of such a man of rank. If you were to meet him in London, he would hardly speak to you, now would he?”
“Arthur would, I know he would. He has been my friend for so long I can scarcely remember how I met him.”
Gertie replied, “You were chucking acorns at the young master as I recall. But maybe you are right, that he would be your friend regardless of the difference in your rank and circumstances. It is not my place to say, but he has always struck me as being an odd duck for a duke. He does seem to be a very different sort from the lords and ladies with their grand ways. Come along, your mother and father are taking tea in the drawing room.”
Beatrice did as Gertie asked, following her to the drawing room on the second floor of the townhouse. The drawing room was elegant in its furnishings. All the latest fashions in décor were observed from the gilt trim on the frames of the pictures to the classic lines of the silk-upholstered chairs and couches. A marble mantle framed the fireplace at one end of the room; a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. Ordinarily, Beatrice’s mother would have entertained guests for tea, but on this day, her mother was under the weather as she explained her ill health when she was not in the mood for receiving visitors.
Beatrice entered the drawing room, finding the mood to be quiet although not unwelcome. Ordinarily, her mother would be flanked by ladies of her class, chattering away about fashion, exchanging gossip, and contenting themselves with other such pastimes—but not today. Her father would have busied himself in the study, writing letters and running his business. These days, her older brother James was far more involved with the day-to-day affairs from the offices in London.
“Beatrice, come sit down, have tea. Cook has made a delectable cake that I think you will enjoy,” her mother said, as she invited her daughter to be seated.
“What of your doctor’s orders, are you permitted to indulge in cakes and sweets?” Beatrice asked as she arranged the pale pink material of her dress so that it would not be wrinkled.
“He will not mind this one time, what is the harm in a slice or two of Cook’s buttery cake?” her mother replied, as Gertie joined the family.
A gaunt man, well dressed in fine attire sat beside the fireplace despite the warmth of the day. A small fire burned in the grate, warding off the damp and chill. Bending the pages of the Bath Chronicle down with his hands, Mr. Edmundson greeted his daughter, “When did you come in? On my word, I did not hear you. You must have moved as quietly and gracefully as a feather.”
Beatrice smiled, her father was always teasing her about her diminutive size for her age. She was petite, slender, and barely came up to her father’s shoulder. Between her mother and Gertie, Beatrice was the subject to their repeated attempts to make her plump, a sign of wealth and good health.
“George, do not be silent, do share with us the news of the day. I desire a tea that is entertaining and substantial. We have a lavish spread; now, what have I for entertainment besides you? Read to us from the Chronicle, perhaps we shall all take delight in the goings on of society.”
“Not I for I fear I shall never be able to delight in any of its trappings,” remarked Beatrice, as her mother handed her a cup of steaming hot tea.
Her mother shook her head with a knowing glance towards Gertie and her husband, she replied, “There, there, Beatrice, your turn shall come soon enough, I assure you. When you are my age, you will be astonished at the quickness that time passes, am I not correct?”
“Quite right, my dear,” he said absentmindedly, as he returned to his pastime of
reading the newspaper.
“Miss Beatrice, you mustn’t wish your days away. Soon, you shall be of age to find a husband. You must make every preparation until then that you are accomplished. Study your music, practice, and be careful to learn your languages. You do not wish to end up like me, an old spinster with no prospects?” Gertie asked as she reached for a sandwich.
“Gertie, how terrible. Your life is not as dreary as that, is it? Not in my employ?” Mrs. Edmundson reacted.
“No ma’am, it’s not terrible to be employed by you. I wanted to impart to the young miss that her time will come, and when it does, she must be ready.”
“That is very good advice,” Mrs. Edmundson stated, as she stirred the tea in her dainty china cup, “Beatrice, I do hope you are heeding all of our advice and counsel. When was the last time you practiced your music, or embroidery? How is your drawing? If you are to find a suitable husband, you must be accomplished in the arts.”
Beatrice shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her accomplishments were lacking of late. Recently, all she wished to do was read sensational novels that she found at the booksellers and dream about Arthur. What did the wife of a duke need with embroidery and music? Were there not other people who could do these things? Why did she need to concern herself with any other purpose other than running a house and seeing to the children if she should be married?
She was dreaming of her life as the wife of Arthur, the Duke of Norwich, when her father mentioned an announcement in the newspaper.
Mr. Edmundson said to his company, “Here is a piece of news that you ladies may find to be of interest. I shall not bore you with business and news from the continent, but this seems to be worthy of your attention. I mention it because the subject of the announcement is among our acquaintance, it would be unseemly not to read the news and comment, I suppose. Yes, we should pay a call to offer our congratulations.”
Regency Engagements Box Set Page 12
