How her world had changed on that day. As she slid the top back on the wooden box she kept hidden in her bedroom at the house in Bath, she remembered the deep, terrible agony the news of Arthur’s wedding caused within her. It was so terrible that she no longer carried the box of her treasured keepsakes back home to Kent when she left at the end of the season. For two years the box remained in a secret drawer of her desk in Bath. Like her feelings for him, it resided in secret within her broken heart.
She recalled with perfect clarity, how she survived that first year after he was married. She feigned illness most of the weeks of the season, prompting her mother to insist that she also take the waters at the Pump Room every day. Her mother also insisted that Beatrice would benefit from seeing her physician. The doctor, a learned man who was educated primarily in the study of women’s ills and complaints, prescribed a regimen of broth for Beatrice, which she consumed with little appetite. Even now, two years later, her mother still insisted she have broth once a day.
It was Gertie who managed to see Beatrice through the worst of it, as she recalled. Gertie, the steadfast and constant woman that she was, counted herself among the very small company who knew the real reason for Beatrice’s fainting and the reason for her refusal to dress or eat unless she was forced to do so by her mother. How fondly Gertie cared for her as if she was Beatrice’s nurse and not her mother’s, but all that was in the past. Fortunately for Beatrice, the new Duchess of Norwich preferred the far more glamorous season of London to Bath. She remained in London as long as possible, only joining her husband for a short duration. That was how Beatrice remembered the duchess, as a vain but beautiful, well-dressed woman, who was dripping in jewels and the finest fashions. Compared to the duchess, Beatrice felt as plain and unwanted as calico compared to silk.
How the old pain still stung, even though it had been two years since that dreadful day in the drawing room. Holding the box in her hands, she considered dashing it to pieces and throwing it into the fire, but there was no fire to be had. It was nearly the end of May. She, like her mother and father, had returned to Bath after her first season in London. Her father was complaining of his usual gout, and her mother’s ailments had flared up, caused she said by the rich London faire she enjoyed for far too long.
Sitting at the desk in her room, Beatrice felt neither excitement nor happiness. Her first season had been successful as far as her introduction to society. A great number of eligible sons of merchants and landowners paid attention to her. Perhaps one or two were remarkable in their personalities or their attentions to her, but she did not give them much notice. Her heart was unable to love again, a result of the disastrous heartbreak she suffered at the hands of Arthur.
For two years, she had barely spoken to him or seen much of him. He was newly married; he was also a duke. He no longer had time to spend with his childhood friend, nor did he exhibit the slightest inclination to do so. The withdrawal of all signs of amity from her closest childhood friend was too much for Beatrice to endure in the solitude of her room.
How many times had she managed to convince her mother that she required Gertie to accompany her to the home of her mother’s acquaintance at Prior Park? How many hours did she spend seated on a stone bench by the pond at the palatial home set on the outskirts of Bath? How many afternoons did she remain at home in the rolling hillside overlooking the town? The bridge at Prior Park with its Greek-inspired architecture reminded her that there was still beauty in the world—even when her own little part of the world was destroyed.
Gertie had been as steadfast and reliable as the bridge, as the palatial house built on the hill overlooking the pond. Poor Gertie, she was over thirty years old now; her chances of ever finding a husband now were quite small. If only there was some way Beatrice could assist her as gratitude. She felt in her heart that she owed Gertie for the two years of selfless friendship she gave to Beatrice as she recovered from the terrible tragedy of losing Arthur to marriage.
Beatrice slid the box back into its hiding place, and with it, her memories of the duke. It was pointless to dwell on what may have been when he was never in love with her and now would never be. Examining her reflection in the mirror, she was pleased that she had not changed much since the day she discovered he was married. Her hair was still the same shade of golden blond; her eyes were still bright blue. Her skin was as rosy as it ever was. She looked remarkably well for a woman whose heart was no longer able to love.
Outside her window, she heard the sound of a bird singing in the trees of the garden. It was a lovely day, a sunny, warm afternoon that would not last. Why did she insist on remaining indoors on a day like this? There was no need to continue to hide away from the world, not anymore. Walking across the room, she was careful to select a bonnet that matched her afternoon frock. A spencer jacket completed her ensemble, as did a pair of summer-weight gloves. These days, she was a proper young woman, or so she appeared to be. She could no longer run outside without a thought given to a bonnet and gloves. With the addition of her reticule, she was properly dressed to go into society, or in this case, to take an afternoon stroll.
“Miss, you can’t go strolling without a chaperone. I’ll just get my bonnet,” Gertie said, as she noticed Beatrice slipping past the drawing room.
“Thank you, Gertie. I keep forgetting that my days of freedom are over. Why does a young woman have to be worried about being alone on a street such as this one? It all seems so silly."
“It is at that, but that’s how the world is; there isn’t much we can do for it. Shall we stroll along the street, maybe take a route to the booksellers by way of the tea room?” Gertie suggested, her cheeks rosy as she smiled.
“You are a dear. How you cheer me when I am stuck in the doldrums. Yes, I would like that very much. I have a few coins in my reticule.”
“So do I, miss. Let me see to your mother before we go. I am certain we won’t be missed for an hour or two.”
Beatrice’s mother offered no objections. She was entertaining several fashionable ladies and would not miss her nurse stepping outdoors to chaperone her daughter. With a smile and nod to her mother from the doorway, Beatrice and Gertie were soon down the stairs and out the door. Walking down the white stone steps, Beatrice breathed in the warm air. How she adored this time of year. It was not quite summer but not spring anymore either. When she was young, she would look forward to spending these days with Arthur, but now she counted the days until she could return to Kent.
As she and Gertie stepped onto the sidewalk, Beatrice was lost in the beauty of the day. She did not see the young couple who turned onto the street towards them until it was too late. Approaching her, was a gentleman she knew well. Arthur was walking beside his wife, the duchess, as she pushed a small, carriage-like contraption along the sidewalk.
Gertie whispered to Beatrice, “Would you look at that? Have you ever seen one of those new carriers for a babe? Have you ever seen the like?”
Beatrice had seen one or two of these new carriages, but they were far more typical among the aristocracy than the merchant class. It was not the diminutive carriage that caught her attention as it had Gertie. It was Arthur, his wife, and their baby.
He looked as happy as any gentleman. It was painful for Beatrice to gaze upon his noble countenance. His wife seemed to be pale but content. With a nod and passing word of salutation, the young aristocratic family stopped to greet Beatrice.
Beatrice did not remember what she said or how she remained composed. This was the first time she was confronted with evidence of the happiness of the man she loved. He looked genuinely content, and for that, she was grateful, but she harbored resentment that it was not with her. She tried not to feel slighted that the woman at his side should have been her, that the babe in the carriage should have been her child. She felt Gertie’s hand on her arm, heard Gertie give an excuse as she urged Beatrice to continue with their stroll.
When they turned the corner of the street, Beatrice looked
back. She saw the young couple disappear into the townhouse. As the door closed behind them, she felt tears stream down her face. It had been two years since her heart was broken. For two years, she had done all she could to avoid seeing Arthur, yet here he was, with his wife and his child. She could not ignore it. Not anymore.
Turning to Gertie, she replied, “I never want to return to Bath ever again. Is there some way you can make arrangements that I remain with my brother in London or return to Kent? I will never be able to face seeing Arthur anymore. It hurts too much every time I look at him, every time he’s with her.”
Gertie patted her on the back as she tried to murmur words of comfort. “Take comfort, young miss. There is something better waiting for you. I will speak to your mother about making arrangements for you if you do not wish to remain in Bath. She does not know of the pain you’ve suffered; if she did, I do not think she would wish for you to stay here."
“Thank you, Gertie. What would I ever do without you?”
“There, there, shall we go home?”
Beatrice nodded her head, as Gertie escorted her home. She did not realize that from a townhouse nearby, someone was watching her.
7
For three days, Beatrice languished in a state of heartbreak and misery nearly as acute as the first time she learned the duke was married. She remained in her room, consumed broth, and drank tea, as she lamented her fate. Her mother was concerned that she was suffering from an illness, a fever. Bath was known for the dampness of its houses and the spread of fever during the warmer months. Yet, despite her mother’s patronage of her favorite doctor, he could not be summoned. He had other patients who demanded his attention due to the severity of their ailments.
“Miss, you’re fortunate you’re not truly ill. There’s a fever about that is taking the young as well as the old,” confided Gertie, as she poured a cup of tea for Beatrice. “I fear your mother will come down with it; her constitution is weak. I’ve begged her to stay indoors and not to venture out. I pray that the Lord will see us safely back to Kent soon.”
“What of the waters? Are they supposed to stave off the fever?” Beatrice asked, showing concern for her mother. “Mama takes them every day, surely that must do her some degree of good?”
“The waters have been beneficial. That’s true, but they cannot cure all that the devil himself can conjure. If that were so, there would be no one dying of any ailments at all.”
“Gertie, you know why I have taken ill. I have not been struck with the fever, nor do I suffer any other malady other than my heart yearns for a gentleman I cannot have. Attend to my mother. She needs your administrations far more than I,” Beatrice said in pleading tone of voice.
“Very well, young miss, but I have news. If you are to recover your strength and your mother does not fall ill, we shall be returning to Kent. Does that not cheer you?”
“It cheers me very well. I shall endeavor to rally my strength. Send Martha upstairs, I shall dress and join Mother in the drawing room.”
“As you wish. Finish your broth, and I will send for Martha.”
Martha arrived not fifteen minutes later; she looked tired and wain.
“Martha, are you unwell? Gertie tells me of a fever that has spread through the city.”
“Yes, miss, but do not concern yourself with me, I am well. One of the scullery maids has taken ill, but she has been sent to her mother’s home. Do not worry yourself with me. There is no need.”
“If you insist, Martha, select something from my day dresses.”
“Very good, miss.”
Martha dressed her, but she seemed to be in a haze, like a she was somewhere else. It was not Martha’s custom to complain or to discuss any of her personal affairs. Beatrice did not ask; she did not have any desire to embarrass her maid, who was already showing signs of strain. From what, she could not know. Was it concern for the young scullery maid?
Beatrice left her room after Martha’s efforts, she used all her effort to descend the staircase to the second floor. From the unearthly quiet of the drawing room, she could only surmise that something was wrong. Her mother’s friends were in the habit of chattering and laughing like songbirds twittering in the trees. Their silence was unexpected.
Walking into the drawing room, Beatrice was not prepared for what she witnessed. Her mother was frowning, her friends were sullen, speaking in somber, quiet tones, as Gertie looked at Beatrice. Standing, she walked towards Beatrice, her face wore an expression of sadness.
“Gertie, what is it? What has happened?” Beatrice asked.
“My dear, I just learned sad news. Steel yourself, but there’s been a death at the home of your neighbors.”
Beatrice gasped in shock. “Oh dear Gertie, tell me that baby is not dead."
Gertie shook her head. “No, the baby is quite well, or so I’m told. Her mother has succumbed to fever. It came upon Her Grace with such haste there was not time to move the baby from the house. I fear for the child, being in that house where there is fever, it can do her no good at all.”
Beatrice was stunned. Leaning against a nearby settee, she slid onto the cushions, pulling Gertie alongside her. “Gertie, that babe is now an orphan. She’s all alone in the world without its mother, how tragic!”
“That baby is not an orphan, do you not recall her father, the Duke of Norwich? He is in mourning, his dear wife was taken to heaven not an hour ago.”
“Poor baby! Poor Arthur!” Beatrice exclaimed.
“Yes, miss, the poor man indeed. A widower at his young age with a young babe and his sickly mother in his care. I shall pray for him, and I suggest you do the same.”
“Gertie, I shall pray very hard for him, and for my own soul. I was envious of her; I wished to be her. What horrible jealousy I felt for her, but now I feel nothing but grief at her passing. If not for her but for the baby she left behind and dear Arthur, how he must grieve for her.”
“Yes, miss, of that there be can be no doubt. His own mother is nearly an invalid, and now his wife is dead.”
Mrs. Edmundson spoke to her daughter, “Beatrice, come here my child. Come here to me. I see Gertie has told you the news of the tragedy that had befallen His Grace, the Duke of Norwich. Go upstairs and change at once, we must wear dark colors when we call upon the family.”
“Mama, are we to call upon them in their state? The duchess had just died. There is illness in the house, and you are not well. Your constitution has never been very strong. Is wise for you to pay a visit?”
Gertie quickly added her own opinion, “Mistress, your daughter is right to be anxious for your health. It will do you no good at all to pay a visit when you may come home stricken with an illness. With the swiftness of that fever and rumors of sickness about, I should think that you would not dare leave this house except to take the waters at the Pump Room.”
Mrs. Edmundson narrowed her eye and set her jaw in a determined expression that Beatrice recognized as being similar to one she had been told she wore when she was being obstinate. Her mother said with firmness to her daughter and her nurse, “Of course, we shall call upon them. If they have a nanny or wet nurse, one can never be certain. The duke shall have need of us, you and me and Gertie, my dear. The care of his child cannot fall to servants. If there is illness, we shall take every precaution. I shall instruct Cook to make some broth, and we shall consult the doctor when we return as to what is to be done for our own health and the health of that poor child and the Dowager Duchess. She never was one who had a constitution any stronger than my own. Surely her son fears for his child and his mother, and we should go to lighten his burden.”
Beatrice’s mother’s friends all nodded their heads in agreement. Not one of the fashionable ladies of Mrs. Edmundson’s social circle would dare to disagree with her when she was in this state of vexation, a fact known to Beatrice as she watched the ladies nod and speak of their approval for Mrs. Edmundson’s courage before they left the drawing room. They whispered their condolences th
at death had visited so near the Edmundson residence and wished that their good will be passed onto the duke and his mother, but they did not themselves dare to make calls for fear of illness or because they were inferior in rank.
Yet, Beatrice was torn. She did not wish to see Arthur suffer or grieve, but she did not wish to intrude upon him during this most painful of times. Nor did she wish to see her mother or Gertie succumb to the same illness which robbed the duke of his wife. Having little care for her own safety, she was nervous about her mother. Mrs. Edmundson, despite her determination and her stubbornness, was still a sickly woman. Her health had never been good, and so they made pilgrimages nearly every year to Bath, or when her mother desperately needed the waters and her father’s gout was upon him. Studying her mother, Beatrice was fearful. Her mother was pale, her eyes red and watery despite her insistence otherwise; she was also prone to exhaustion and headaches, but she would not be dissuaded from this most solemn of errands. With assurances from her mother that she would remain in health and that the duke would be grateful for any help he received, Beatrice went upstairs to change clothes.
8
The scene which awaited Beatrice, her mother, and Gertie was a sad one. The house next door was grand and opulent, but it was seemed cold that day—even as the summer sun flooded the rooms with bright light and warmth. The duke was in seclusion, inconsolable. The baby was attended by her nurse in the nursery, and the Dowager Duchess was seated in the drawing room, attended by a young man whose expression—while handsome—was grave. He stood and bowed upon their arrival.
The departed duchess was not visible, much to Beatrice’s relief. Her body had not been brought downstairs to the drawing room as was customary due to the fever, Gertie whispered to Beatrice as they entered the room and the presence of the duke’s mother. The Dowager Duchess turned to face her visitors with undisguised disgust as she said, “There has been a death in this house. We are in no fit state to entertain visitors. Have you no regard for decorum that you should expect tea when we are in mourning?”
Regency Engagements Box Set Page 14
