Regency Engagements Box Set

by Charlotte Fitzwilliam

  “Congratulations? Then it surely must be good news,” Gertie exclaimed.

  Her employer nodded, as he answered, “I heartily concur. It seems that our distinguished neighbor the Duke of Norwich was recently wed to none other than the eldest daughter of the Earl of Winslow.”

  Beatrice stopped breathing as she tried to understand what her father said. The words did not make sense, the sounds of them as distant as an echo as she felt the blood draining from her face, the world outside that once held the promise of a beautiful May day darkened as though a sudden storm descended upon the city. Birds no longer sang, or if they did, she did not hear them. All she could hear was the loud beating of her own heart in her chest, thumping wildly as her stomach knotted and panic swept over her like cold rain. She could feel her own breath, gasping and gulping as if she could not breathe; she felt faint, as she heard Gertie’s voice from somewhere far away.

  Gertie asked the questions that Beatrice could not bear to speak, as the older woman anxiously glanced at Beatrice. “Sir, do you mean His Grace, the Duke of Norwich? The young gentleman from the house on the other side of the garden? He is married, are you certain?”

  “The very one. It says in the paper that his marriage was very recent, this spring as a matter of fact. How very interesting that he should be in Bath with his mother. He must be devoted to her or her health must be failing,” Mr. Edmundson said, as Beatrice felt her teacup slip from her grasp as the room began to spin and then become dark.

  5

  Beatrice sat listlessly and forlorn. She was attended by her dearest friends in Kent, as she stared at the tart on her plate. She sat in a sitting room that overlooked a garden. The view from her vantage point was as lush and green in the summer, as green as the pillows on the couch on which she sat inside the grand, red-brick Georgian mansion that belonged to her family. She should have been as pleased as she ever was. She adored Kent; she loved her time spent in that house and on the estate. She adored strolling to the nearby village and having tea at the homes of her family’s acquaintances. Especially in the summer when all the families in society were home from London and not yet attending hunting parties. For a girl who was not yet presented, summers were the closest thing to attending the London Season. A season that both Emily and Jane were quick to discuss, as they were two years older than Beatrice and presented. They enjoyed nothing more than to chat about dresses, and fashion, the popular dances and the music they learned while they were away in London.

  In their company, and even before they were among society, Beatrice saw nearly everyone her own age who attended teas and afternoon carriage rides. Any social events that did not involve dancing or the mixing of the sexes in any way she was free to attend without the fear of malicious gossip. And she did so. Many young girls, who were a year or two older than she, were already out and moved freely in society, just like her friends Emily and Jane. Beatrice’s age, tender as it may have been was not an impediment to an afternoon spent strolling along the village green in the company of her friends or watching a local cricket match, even though she no longer dared to play the game for fear of what her mother might say. Despondently, she thought of all the sublime pleasures of her time in Kent, but she could not think of a single pursuit which offered her any amusement when her heart was broken.

  Feigning illness to conceal her despair, she had moped around the house and hid away in her room or the library to such an extent that her mother had called the doctor. Gossip regarding Beatrice’s ailments had reached the ears of Jane and Emily, Beatrice’s friends since childhood. They had been told of her illness, and so they arrived one day after her return from Bath and refused to abandon her.

  This afternoon was no exception. With their frequent visits, they had become regular fixtures at the Edmundson house—particularly in the sitting room. Mrs. Edmundson entertained her own set of friends in the formal drawing room. Due to Beatrice’s perceived infirmary and her weakness, she was attended, as she had been for many days previous, by the two girls in the smaller, less formal sitting room. A full tea had been laid on, and the two girls enjoyed it immensely, as no expense had been spared, both of them gobbling the tarts and cakes and enjoying tea savories with a gusto they never would have exhibited in the drawing room among their mothers and older sisters. Yet, in the sitting room, among their own small circle, they ate the food without fear of being regarded as less than ladylike while Beatrice summoned the courage not to break into open wailing in front of them. She was tempted to moan in a most pitiful manner, and after several of their visits, they had still not cheered her, but she did appreciate their efforts. Finally, she could hide her pain no longer, as she explained to her friends, albeit briefly, of what happened to her in Bath. She took the greatest of care not to say very much about the duke and his new bride—except what was absolutely necessary—lest she should cry pitiably and abandon Jane and Emily to seek the refuge of her room. It was a course of action that was nearly impossible for her to resist, as she longed to be left alone to her grieving for a man she loved and lost.

  “You poor dear!” Emily Caldwell exclaimed, as Beatrice picked up the berry tart on her china plate then set it back down, neglecting the sweet. Her appetite had waned in the days that became weeks and now a month since she returned from Bath.

  Emily Caldwell, flighty, silly Emily with her tall, thin figure and her mousy, dark hair was always prone to giggling entirely too much but not today. And neither was Jane Denning, the sickly platinum blond with the pale wistful expression that, on this day, looked positively pensive. With her two friends at her side in the cozy sitting room of her family’s home, Beatrice was at last able to unburden herself of her great sorrow. However, she was vigilant to swear them to secrecy.

  “Your mother does not know what happened?” Jane asked in her sensible advice-giving tone of voice. “What of your father? Surely if some understanding existed between you and His Grace, then it can be presumed that some arrangement could be brought about.”

  “What arrangement? It is far too late for talk of arrangements. He is married. Married, I tell you. Even if my father would demand that he honor any understanding he may have had in regards to me, little good it would do,” exclaimed Beatrice.

  Jane was quick to answer, “I know that it would do you no good at all, but I was thinking of his reputation and that of his family. He can’t become unmarried for you, but I do wish that his peers knew how rude he had been and so did his new wife. I wonder if she would be so pleased with him as a husband if she knew that he was already promised to you. What would she think and society if it was known that he was a dreadful, deceitful person.”

  Beatrice slid her plate with its forlorn-looking tart onto the table in front of the couch and leaned against the arm of it, neglecting her posture and her attempt to appear as though she was merely unwell. With her head on her arms, she sighed, and then she answered, “I dare not tell my mother or anyone else. What would matter if I did?”

  “Why not? Are you guarding some kind of dark secret? Did the duke threaten you into silence, or did he behave monstrously towards you? Was he forward, and did he try to take advantage of you?” asked Emily.

  “No, he did not threaten me, nor did he act in any way that was not proper. He is a duke, and he is married. I would be the one to look foolish, or worse, like some sort of fortune hunter—even though my family has property and wealth to spare. I have no title, but that never mattered between Arthur and myself. In all the years that I have known him, he behaved as a gentleman and a friend, but I somehow thought he must have regarded me as something more, ” explained Beatrice wistfully.

  “Beatrice,” Emily bit her lip as if she was unsure what to say, but then she spoke quickly asking a question that Beatrice was not expecting, “If this gentleman, this duke did not give you any sign that he cared for you, why did you think he wanted to marry you? Did he say anything, or act like a man in love with you?”

  Tears sprung to Beatrice’s eyes, a
s she raised her head from her arms. “No, he never said or acted like anything other than a friend, I suppose, but there were so many ways I thought differently. It was not like in a novel, but I knew he did care me, or I thought so. We were together every day when we were younger. Every day that I was in Bath, I saw him, I spoke to him. He spoke to me. There were carriage rides, games of ball and cards. We were nearly always together.”

  Jane jumped up from her seat and plopped onto the couch beside Beatrice. Pulling her friend into an embrace. Jane held her as she wept while Jane said, “I am sure Emily did not mean to hurt you, but she doesn’t understand—and neither do I—how you could have imagined he loved you. You are so clever and mostly sensible when you are not being impulsive. Was there some sign you have not shared with us, some secret that you did not mention which would indicate that he wished to ask for your hand? Did he ask for permission to write to you when you were not in Bath? Did you meet with him at any other time? Were your families well connected?”

  Beatrice slid back from Jane. Wiping her eyes with her hands, she said, “No, he never asked to write to me or arranged any visits or sent any invitations to my family—except when we were in Bath. His mother did not invite us to her house in the summer. She should have and so should he; we shared a wall. His house—his garden—was and is on the other side of ours. Do you hear me, his house and mine share a single wall. We were connected from the moment my parents bought the property. Just as we were, the duke and me, only I know him as Arthur. If he had no intentions towards me, why did he permit me to call him by his name? Surely that must have meant something.”

  “It meant that you were friends and now are no more than neighbors, I am afraid,” Jane answered as if it brought her no joy to say such things, a frown on her face.

  “Jane, that sounds dreadful!” Emily cried.

  “It cannot sound any worse than what you have said to her Emily, my dear. I am trying to be cheerful but honest. Beatrice, my dearest, the best thing for a broken heart is to face the truth and see that it does not happen to you again,” Jane suggested, being sensible as always.

  “I suppose you know a lot about this kind of thing,” Beatrice replied tearfully.

  “I am only trying to be helpful. I have had my first season in London, but I was not foolish enough to give my heart to anyone. Perhaps if you did the same, if you were careful about such things and guarded your heart, you would not be in the position you find yourself in now. I say guard your heart as you do your virtue and you cannot be made unhappy.”

  “Jane, that is hardly helpful,” replied Emily. “Can you not see that it is too late for advice; Beatrice is miserable.

  Beatrice was hurt by Jane’s words, but she could not find any fault in them, despite her wish to do so. Jane was older, only slightly, but her age and her experience in the world still counted. Jane was out in society; perhaps she did know a few more things about love than Beatrice. Considering that her friend was right, despite the brutality of her method of dispensing her wisdom, Beatrice was far from being indignant. Her pain was too great to bear alone although she soon discovered that speaking about it to anyone was nearly as painful as holding all of her sorrow inside her heart, a dark and dreadful secret.

  “Perhaps you are right, Jane. You are older; therefore, I presume wiser than me. Besides, you are not the one sitting here with your heart broken, are you? Perhaps I was too naïve to assume that he held me in the same high esteem with which I adored him. He did not formally do any action or say any word to indicate that he felt anything for me but the greatest of amity and regard, but it was there, I tell you. In the way he spoke to me, in his laugh, in his invitations to go for strolls and play games and exchange books. We talked for hours; we had tea; when I think of it, I do not understand it. Why did he not consider me for his wife?” Beatrice was weeping once more as she thought of the weeks she spent in Bath, sitting in the garden with Arthur at her side, both reading books together or chatting about the blooms on the bushes, or the state of their mother's health, or a vast number of other subjects.

  “He may not have known of your feelings. Did he know that you cared for him as more than a dear friend? When I listen to how you are speaking of him, I wonder if that may have been the cause of your heartbreak. Have you thought that perhaps you did not offer him any encouragement?” asked Emily.

  Beatrice was inconsolable. “How could I have offered him any more encouragement than was already there? I never spoke about any other gentleman, or any wish to come out in society. I always dreamed that it would be him who would ask me to marry him, how could I have been so foolish?”

  Jane looked troubled, as she said, “You were not foolish, not at all. Don’t you think so for a minute! I spoke hastily. I am always quick with advice, but I am not always sensible about the telling of it. He did not say he cared, and he did not ask for permission to be in correspondence, but upon your description of your time in his company, I should say he was a fool not to see how you cared for him. Do not trouble yourself about him. Soon, you shall be of age to come out into society. If we are not yet married, we shall be there at your side. If we are, you shall be invited to our houses for tea and dinners. Won’t that be thrilling? Perhaps, if your mother and father are willing to make a concession, you may be presented in the spring? Are they quite set that you wait until two years from now?”

  Beatrice answered, “I do not think they are settled on the idea or are immovable upon the subject, although my mother has often said that I was too young to be among gentlemen. I regret that she has filled my head with woeful tales of what can happen to young girls who should not yet be among worldly sort of men. After what has happened between myself and Arthur, I am not entirely certain that I am capable of being even the slightest cheerful about London or much else.”

  “What of balls and dancing with dashing young men, and dinners, and elegant parties? And games and cards? Oh, Beatrice, how you will brighten when you are among society. Will she not, Jane?” Emily said to her friend.

  “Yes, Emily is quite right, the dear girl.” Jane explained, “Once you have spent a season in London, you may find that all thoughts of this duke have flown out of your head. You may meet a charming, handsome man and wonder how you ever thought you were in love with this duke. You will see that finding a husband among your own set is far more pleasurable than dreaming that some man loves you who is not among your circle. Tell me, did you not think on that, that he is a duke and you are the daughter of a merchant?”

  “There was never a reason to consider the difference between us, but it does not matter anymore. He is married, and I am not nor do ever hope to be. I do not think I am one for attending balls or dinners just now. Even if my parents were to allow me to go to London, I do not know how much I would wish to be there. Perhaps I will feel differently than I do now in a month or by Christmas? I cannot say, but I do know that I was not being silly to imagine that he cared for me—even if he did not say so. Why would any man spend time in the company of a woman if he did not wish it,” Beatrice said, feeling dejected.

  Emily was undaunted, as she proffered her opinion, “You have said that he was your neighbor in Bath, which could lead to an amiable acquaintance between you. Do not think me cruel for saying as much, but perhaps you showed more enthusiasm for his company than he did for yours? He may have been a kind man, who did not wish to be rude to you. I presume that he knew of your mother’s illness. Perhaps the reason for his kindness and his friendship was led by his sense of compassion for you? There you were, a girl with no one to comfort you, and he did what he thought he could to soothe your worries and cheer you? It may be a sign that he is a true and loyal friend—and that was all that he ever was to you. It does not ease your pain at the news of his marriage, but you must be gladdened that a duke, a gentleman of a fine and noble family, was your friend for a time.”

  Sniffing, Beatrice replied, “He was my friend, and for that, I am to be gladdened? No, I am not gladdened by i
t. I am not at all. I wish I had never known him. Then, I could be as you, Emily, who believes that I must go to London to attend balls which will make me feel better. Or what of you, Jane? Suggesting that I be presented next season and guard my heart? What good will that do me when the man I love is married? Oh, how I wish that I was as each of you, neither one knowing of the torment of love that has left you in despair!”

  Without bidding her friends goodbye, or wishing them well, Beatrice could endure no more of their advice and good-natured attempts to cheer her. She did not wish to be rude to them, but it could not be helped. They were dear to her, but she could not bear their advice and their candor about a matter so close to her heart. She had made a mistake to tell them about Arthur, a terrible mistake sharing her grief with anyone. As she rushed from the sitting room, she nearly collided with Gertrude Chisolm on the landing of the stairs. The woman stared at Beatrice’s tear-streaked face as she said, “Miss, are you unwell again?”

  “No, Gertie, I am not unwell. I just want to be left alone!” Beatrice demanded as she left the woman staring at her from the landing and two young women looking positively shocked from the doorway of the sitting room.

  6

  How clearly Beatrice recalled that day two years ago when she fainted in her parents drawing room in Bath. The news that Arthur was newly married was too much for Beatrice to bear, too much for her youthful heart to endure. For all her life, she had grown up believing that, somehow, Arthur loved her as she loved him. She believed that he dreamed of her and wished to be with her. That day, she discovered the terrible reason that he acted as he did in the garden. He was distant to her, formal, because he was a married man and she was a girl of sixteen.