Regency Engagements Box Set

by Charlotte Fitzwilliam

  Beatrice assumed her mother would offer her condolences and make a hasty withdrawal, but she astonished Beatrice by her show of fortitude. Curtseying, Mrs. Edmundson stood back up and said clearly, “We have not come to pay a social call, Your Grace. We, my companion and my daughter, both of whom you are acquainted, we have come to offer our condolences and to offer our services to your family.”

  The Dowager Duchess looked at Mrs., Edmundson with a scowl on her face that slowly softened but only a little as she said, “We have no need of your services. We have servants to attend to us. What can you be offering?”

  “Our friendship, our assistance, and anything you may require. This is a terrible time for you and your son. We shall endeavor to do what we can to help you, as I am certain that you would if tragedy should visit our house.”

  Beatrice was not at all certain that the Dowager Duchess would deign to offer so much as a word of sympathy if anything terrible should befall one of the Edmundsons, but her mother seemed determined not to be turned away or her offer of assistance easily dismissed.

  The Dowager Duchess waved her hand, as she said, “Very well, if you will be seated. I suppose that your daughter does presume an acquaintance with my son. I would be in error to deny her the privilege of consoling him.”

  “Thank you. Your Grace is most kind,” Mrs. Edmundson said, as she gestured for Gertie and Beatrice to be seated. Beatrice was stricken by the terrible events of the day and her enormous guilt that she had ever been jealous of the departed duchess, but even her guilt, as powerful as it was, could not shield her from the condescending attitude of the Dowager Duchess and the unexpected notice of the young man in her company.

  Without bothering to make introductions, the Dowager Duchess leaned close to the young man at her side. A man who Beatrice, in her grief and emotional state, could see was not only handsome but appeared to be well dressed, and in his manner, a gentleman. His eyes were brown and gleamed with intelligence; his light brown hair was styled fashionably, and his coat and breeches were tailored. Whoever he must be, he was clearly a gentleman of means and some fortune although she knew not who he was or what his connection was to Her Grace. Beatrice was temporarily distracted by the puzzle of speculation that this gentleman presented to her as she watched the Dowager Duchess speak to him in the manner of a person who was a confidant or a friend, or at best a trusted servant.

  “Doctor Whitmore, I advise that after you see to the child and to my son that you attend to Mrs. Edmundson. She is rather ill of late, her constitution like my own if not strong. I do not wish for her to suffer from the same malady that stole away my son’s wife this very day,” the Dowager Duchess said to the young man.

  A doctor, Beatrice mused after recovering from her astonishment that the Dowager Duchess should show the slightest inclination of concern for Mrs. Edmundson. The young man was a doctor, she thought to herself. Perhaps that would explain his study of her. She hoped she did not appear to be sickly when she was not. It was her usual pallor which prevailed on this day; she was merely pale from heartbreak and guilt.

  “Yes, Your Grace, and very good advice I should say. Might I also report that I have taken those same precautions regarding your granddaughter and son. I have taken pains to explain to Lady Lydia’s nurse that the child must not be taken from the nursery for a time for fear the fever may come upon her. If the fever had not claimed Her Grace so quickly, I should have advised that the child be removed from this house, but that time regrettably is at an end, and so she must stay in confinement until the danger passes. I fear it would be more dangerous to move the child and take her from her surroundings. The nursery if properly treated as sick room, may offer her a refuge from the illness that is in the remainder of the house and may affect the staff. It is unfortunate that I was unable to speak to His Grace, as he has indicated by means of his valet that he does not wish to avail himself of my instruction or advice at this time.”

  The Dowager Duchess gestured to her visitor. “Not that he can be blamed, his wife has just passed. What of Mrs. Edmundson?”

  “Mrs. Edmonson, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, although I take no pleasure in the circumstances which have necessitated this introduction,” the gentleman said with a grim but slight smile.

  “May I introduce my daughter, Miss Beatrice Edmundson, and my companion and nurse, Miss Gertrude Chisolm?” Mrs. Edmundson said to the young man.

  “I am honored to meet each of you,” he answered, as his eyes lingered for a moment on Beatrice’s face and his smile appeared to brighten his features for a second before he returned to a more somber attitude befitting the tragic events of the terrible day.

  Beatrice inquired, “Doctor Whitmore, if I may ask about the child. You have stated that she is being confined to her nursery. Is there any reason that I should not see her? I want to offer my help to the babe, as I expect that her nurse shall have the sole care of her. I do not know the nurse, but I doubt that she possesses the strength to see to the child without help. That is not a detriment to the woman’s character but an opinion which I do not believe can be wrong, for how is she to rest?”

  “While I may advise Her Grace regarding the care of the child or what remedies I would suggest, I do not have the ability to decide who should see to her care. I have made my advice known. The child should not leave the nursery, nor should she be around a great deal of people. Her nurse, the duke, and Her Grace are all that I advise. However, I can see little harm if you are not suffering from any effects of the fever and no one in your house has succumbed to it,” the doctor replied.

  The Dowager Duchess did not appear to make any attempt to conceal her bewilderment at Beatrice’s question, as she asked Beatrice, “Why should my granddaughter’s care be your concern?”

  Mrs. Edmundson answered in Beatrice’s place, “Ma’am, I assure you that the child’s care is a concern for all of us. The baby is now without a mother, a traumatic and terrible burden that no family should have to bear. I can give you my word that my daughter’s interest is purely out of kindness. Your son has many things which must be settled, and you must find yourself similarly engaged. If you permit my daughter to assist the nurse and the doctor, I cannot think how you would be disappointed by your decision.”

  “I cannot deny that the child’s care is a concern which seems to be yet another dilemma to be addressed. If you give me your word as a gentlewoman that your daughter has recovered from her reckless ways and the carelessness which I overserved in her character when she was young, and that she is not suffering from any dangerous symptoms, I shall permit her to assist the nurse,” the Dowager Duchess said to Mrs. Edmundson.

  Beatrice could barely believe what she was hearing. The Dowager Duchess was insulting her when she had come to offer her help. She was reminded of countless encounters during her youth when such sentiments would have gone unnoticed but not anymore. She was a young woman and no longer a child, and offenses—no matter how slight—did not escape her notice as they once did. Feeling her temper rising, she pursed her lips and looked down at her hands. The old woman had suffered a loss, the duke’s wife had died, surely Beatrice could see past her own wounded pride and do what she knew she must to assist this family until the crises was at an end.

  “Ma’am, my daughter earnestly offers you her help out of the goodness of her heart. If that is not proof of her character than I cannot offer you any evidence to alter your opinion,” stated Mrs. Edmundson.

  “Yes, yes, it is very noble of her to volunteer to assist my family. Shall I offer to pay her wages like a nurse?”

  Beatrice felt her cheeks redden from the sting of the insult. Why did the Dowager Duchess offer her nothing but biting remarks and offense when she was offering her assistance? Fighting the urge to quickly stand and rush to the door, Beatrice stayed at her mother’s side, as her mother answered for her once again, “We have not the slightest need for your money. We may be a merchant family, but we are not paupers—and neither is my daug
hter. I shall not take exception to your opinions given freely, as I know you to be an honorable woman and you have suffered a terrible loss on this day.”

  Beatrice wanted to gasp aloud, but she did not. Her mother in her own calm and perfectly polite manner had addressed the Dowager Duchess’s unconcealed disdain for Beatrice and had done so without raising her voice. Wishing she could applaud her mother, Beatrice sat at her side and waited for what would happen next while, in her mind, she longed to see the child, to ensure that the little baby had not taken ill. She was not sure, however, that she had the strength to see the duke. The heartbreak she suffered at his hands was still too powerful. Regrettably, so was the guilt she felt for her envy of his dead wife was far from a distant memory.

  Speaking as if he sensed that Beatrice was not contented to sit in the presence of the Dowager Duchess who possessed a poor opinion of her, Doctor Whitmore said, “Ma’am, may I suggest that I accompany Miss Edmundson to the nursery? I will not be satisfied that the child is receiving the utmost care unless I offer my personal instruction to her concerning the sick room.”

  “Yes, yes, if you must, but do not delay,” the Dowager Duchess dismissed him.

  “If you permit me to accompany you,” Doctor Whitmore said to Beatrice.

  “Thank you for offering your advice,” Beatrice said in the presence of the Dowager Duchess, her mother, and Gertie, whom she noticed was staring at her rather oddly.

  The gratitude that Beatrice felt to the doctor was immense. In the past three days, she had felt every painful emotion she could imagine must exist in the world. Seeing Arthur again, with his wife and child, tore open the old wound she had tried for two years to mend. For three days, she had languished, feeling the sorrow of his loss again and again no matter how she wished it were otherwise. She could not sleep, nor eat. She found no rest without seeing him again, as a married man with a family, a family that was not hers. That pain was as terrible as it had been when her father read those fateful words contained in the Bath Chronicle all those years ago, that the duke was married. How she recalled that day with perfect clarity, much like seeing him again. Her pain was overwhelming, but then she was confronted by this day, this dreadful, horrible day that she learned the duchess had died. The need to help her daughter, who Beatrice felt she had wronged merely by envying her mother was overwhelming. A child, who was without a mother, a tragic state for any child to be in, even one who was the daughter of a duke was heartbreaking.

  With the guilt, the hurt, and the fear that she would see the duke again and have to face him all tormenting her, the cruel words of the Dowager Duchess were keenly felt. Beatrice was astonished not only by her mother’s quiet bravery but by her own ability to bear the slights with grace. Had she been unaccompanied and the Dowager Duchess not suffering from the loss of her daughter-in-law, Beatrice could easily have permitted her temper to gain the upper hand. She was glad—in this circumstance—that she did not, especially when she had Doctor Whitmore to thank for his part in her rescue. A rescue she sorely needed after three days of tears.

  “Doctor Whitmore,” she said when they were on the stairs leading to the private rooms of the family. “I want to thank you. You are not acquainted with me, but I feel that I owe you a debt. As you have undoubtedly noticed, Her Grace does not possess a good opinion of me. My temper, being greatly taxed these past days was nearly displayed and to what end? I thank you, sir, for offering me a way to compose myself by leaving the drawing room with some modicum of dignity. If I have said far too much or embarrassed you, know that it was not my intention. I hope I have not spoken out of turn,” said Beatrice as she blushed.

  “A debt? Miss Edmundson, I cannot think of what you must be implying. It is I who am grateful that you have taken this burden upon your shoulders. Until the crises is passed, I have advised Her Grace against the hire of a second nurse to assist in the care of the child. I do not wish to burden any of the staff, especially the nurse who is already doing her duty, but with the fever about, it is my judgment that to preserve the health of the child, she should not be in the care of a person who may bring fever and illness. Bath is not safe this time of year. The fever that has always been a plagued to this city had encroached upon us once again. The lower classes have always been particularly vulnerable to the diseases of the damp and the fevers, and I do not wish for anyone who may be among their number to apply for a nursing position—not until I am sure the child is out of danger, and the fever has subsided among the houses of the working class.”

  “What of my health? I would never forgive myself if I was responsible for bringing sickness to the duke’s daughter. I do not think I could bear that knowledge that I was at fault for the loss of the babe.”

  “You seem to be in good spirits; you may be slightly pale and wain, but I do not think you have the look of fever about you. It is not my place to say, but your malady if you are indeed suffering from one, is a lack of proper rest and diet. I would advise that broth be administered, cold chicken and tonic.”

  "Your prescription is what my own doctor has advised,” she answered.

  “I am pleased that you are attending to your constitution. May I suggest taking the waters when you can? If you are diligent, then I see no reason that you should offer any danger to the child, none what so ever,” he answered.

  “Thank you, you have eased my anxiousness, but I still insist that I owe you a debt.”

  “Not at all,” he answered.

  “But I do, you may have noticed the Dowager Duchess's treatment of me, that could hardly go unobserved, but you may not have observed my discomfort in the drawing room,” Beatrice carefully said, not wishing to share any spiteful opinion of the Dowager Duchess, especially to a person she did not know well enough to take into her confidence.

  The doctor smiled, a genuine reaction that made his brown eyes sparkle as he replied, “I should not dwell on any harsh words today, not when they were surely not meant with sincerity. If I were to suggest that you are worthy of praise, would I be too forward? It is not often that I see anyone of your wealth and station volunteer their time so generously.”

  “It gives me no joy to admit to you that I am not being generous. My desire to help is rooted in other grounds besides noble generosity,” she said. She noted as they stood together on the stairway, that he was taller than she was and thinly built but not gaunt. He was not unattractive, and he was fashionable. She recognized the style of coat and the way he knotted his cravat as quite similar to what she had noticed the dandies in London wore, but she could not allow herself to think anything about him, as there was work to be done.

  “No matter the reason, you are here in this house. There is a great need for assistance, as the grief is strong and I fear so is the concern of illness. I dare not utter my thoughts aloud in the drawing room. Her Grace is a proud woman, but she must be grateful to you even if she has not said so. I do not think any harm can come from telling you of my admiration for you and your generosity. If no one else is truly thankful for your charity, you have earned the gratitude of the nurse and myself. I will rest far better knowing the child is being given the very best of care,” he replied, as he smiled.

  Beatrice’s cheeks blushed from the compliment coming from a man who was not just a fashionable sort of gentleman but also seemed to be kind. If her guilt had not been so powerful, she might have taken pleasure in his words and his admiration, but no satisfaction could come from them. Not when there was loss and grief on that day.

  “Doctor Whitmore, I thank you for your sentiments, I am neither deserving of praise nor am I entirely generous,” she said.

  “Shall we go to the nursery? The nurse will be glad to see that help has arrived. With illness in the house, the woman has not had the benefit of rest,” the doctor replied.

  “Yes, we shall go to the nursery. It would do my heart good to see how the babe fairs,” Beatrice answered, as her gaze was attracted by movement above her head, along the banister of the staircase.r />
  For a moment, she thought she saw a glimpse of a familiar figure leaned against the railing overhead. Her breath caught in her throat at the thought of seeing Arthur again, especially on such a dark day. What would she say to him, how could she offer solace when they had not spoken as friends in years? With a sinking feeling, she knew that the days of her youthful infatuation were over. The dreams and heartbreak she felt because of her fantasies of a life together with him were just stories she had spun for herself. He had married and lost his wife; he was widowed, and he was a duke, and she was nothing more than a woman who was his neighbor. She would be kind to him, but as a tear came to her eye, she felt the loss of the duchess more keenly than she should have, the jealousy for the short years of her marriage to the duke waning into a sorrow that had no name. It was a loss that not only plagued her with guilt but reminded her that he had never been more than a childhood friend. A realization that struck Beatrice with a force she had not felt before.

  For two years, she had lived with the knowledge that the man she loved had married another woman and chose to find a wife among his own set. That pain, while dreadful to bear, had been fleeting, dull with moments of sharpness. This pain, this weight she felt was different. It was as if, after two years, she finally understood that he had never loved her and never cared for her, and her own season in London had been wasted as had the hours of her youth she had spent lamenting a match that was merely the result of her own imagination. Upstairs, a door closed. She was sure it was him, and she felt a sense of dread and confusion as to what was she doing at his house, why had she intruded upon him during this time of grief when she could do little but offer empty words about a duchess she had never known?