Climbing the stairs, her steps reluctant now that she knew she had been terribly foolish, she heard the faint cries of a baby. The cries seized her heart in a way she did not understand. Perhaps it was because she knew the child must surely be crying for her mother and her mother was not coming to embrace her. There would be no more motherly kisses on the little baby’s forehead, no more sweet words, or affection. This child was motherless, and Beatrice suddenly forgot her own foolishness, her own grief, and her own despair as she followed the doctor up the stairs, wishing that she could run to the child. If the duke did not love her, the Dowager Duchess thought she was unladylike in every regard. There was little to be done for it. What she did know, what she felt strongly from the moment she heard the baby cry, softly and muffled through the closed door of the nursery, was that the child, Lady Lydia as she was called, needed love and care, and her nurse was desperate for rest. Beatrice was needed; her help was required, and she vowed silently that she would not abandon the child—not while she had strength and love to give her.
9
The season in Bath ended as all the fashionable people traveled to their country estates. They left behind the residents of Bath and the most infirmed and ill who needed the healing waters every day. For the Edmundsons, all plans to return to Kent were immediately forgotten. Mr. Edmundson made several trips back and forth in his carriage to visit the estate, but he always returned to Bath, to his wife and daughter. Beatrice, like her mother, remained in their townhouse satisfied that it was somehow their responsibility as women and as neighbors to do all that could be done for the poor dear baby who was left motherless. As the weeks stretched into late summer, they remained without showing the slightest inclination towards leaving.
The duke and his family remained in Bath under the guidance of his doctor. The Duke of Norwich was advised that removing the young child from Bath so soon after her mother’s death by fever could be disastrous. The child, Doctor Whitmore explained, may be weak and prone to illness. Until it was determined, beyond any doubt, that the baby was strong enough to travel, the doctor strongly advised against it. This arrangement, while unusual, seemed to suit the Dowager Duchess as her failing health required constant attention and taking of the waters at the Pump Room.
The duke seemed saddened by the doctor’s counsel although he followed it without complaint. The house he once said to Beatrice was filled with the unhappy memory of his wife’s recent passing. He contemplated putting the residence on the market, but his mother had a fondness for the place. It had been in his family since it was originally built. How could he leave it and displace his mother, he asked?
It was strange to hear him say such things to Beatrice, as though he was making polite conversation with a stranger. He addressed her with civility, spoke to her at no length, and often confined his topics to the weather, her health, and the health of his own dear baby. Lydia was the infant’s name. She was growing at a surprisingly fast rate for one so young and under a doctor’s watchful care.
The baby Lydia had a physician, a nurse, a maid, and the devoted attention of Mrs. Edmundson, Beatrice, and Gertie. It was in the absence of the child’s father and the due to the poor and slowly declining health of the Dowager Duchess that the baby came to be regarded as something of a dear ward of the Edmundson family. The child’s own grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, doted on the baby as much as she could, but with her strict schedule of rest and taking the cure, she was not as attentive as she would have liked. Beatrice noticed that the woman, who was not warm or gregarious sort of person, made every attempt to be a loving and generous grandmother to the child, but her poor health was an insurmountable obstacle, and so she endured the daily addition of the Edmundsons and Gertrude Chisolm into her household.
In Beatrice’s eyes, the child was beautiful in a delightful cherubic fashion. She possessed her father’s dark waves and curls and her mother’s ivory tone of skin. Dimples appeared when the babe smiled and laughed, which sounded like the song of angels to Beatrice’s ears. It was remarked by one and all that the child would one day become a beauty like her mother. Beatrice sincerely wished happiness for the child and did all she could to comfort the baby, even going so far as to take her out on strolls in her carriage with Gertie. Gertie was alone in her understanding of what truly motivated Beatrice. She adored the child but guilt that she had ever been envious of the poor child’s departed mother motivated her to act. As she devoted herself to the baby, she lost the girlish obsession with Arthur, no longer seeing him as the object of her affections and dreams. She now regarded him with tenderness. The man could barely look at his own child. It was because of the pain of losing his wife that Beatrice suspected was what caused him to withdraw from Lydia and his residence. He was gone for many days that summer, citing the need to oversee his affairs elsewhere. Beatrice did not question him but accepted his explanation—although she doubted it.
As she made daily trips to the residence next door, Beatrice grew close to the Dowager Duchess. The older woman liked to be informed of her granddaughter’s activities—even though she preferred the tranquility of her own chamber to the nursery. It was during this time that Beatrice also assumed the role of reader and unofficial companion to the Dowager Duchess, who preferred her company to that of her paid companions, which was never more evident than on a late summer’s afternoon at tea.
Beatrice came down the stairs from the nursery, her charge was asleep for a nap, and her nurse was well rested and prepared to care for her through the evening hours, with the intention of speaking to the Dowager Duchess for a moment before she departed from the residence. She quietly approached the drawing-room door. Tonight, after dining with her family, she planned to attend to a pair of letters which must be written and were long overdue. Emily and Jane had both sent correspondence expressing their sympathy at the loss suffered by her friend the Duke of Norwich. Jane included helpful advice as she always did—even now that she was engaged. Emily’s letters were like the dear girl herself, filled with funny anecdotes and gossip and of course her own misadventures as a new wife having recently been married. Beatrice felt the weight of her neglected replies and planned to remedy it. Perhaps she may find time before she dressed for dinner, she mused, as she entered the drawing room. The Dowager Duchess did not like for Beatrice to neglect her daily habit of reporting on the health and progress of her granddaughter.
The Dowager Duchess was alone in the drawing room. She was stirring the tea in a bone china cup as she looked at Beatrice, but she did not frown. Beatrice was growing accustomed to this new manner of relating to the woman, although she was still not quite prepared to believe it. For many years, the formidable woman had treated her as little more than an urchin found on the street. It was odd to be greeted with a smile and respect, but Beatrice did not intend to jeopardize the woman’s good opinion of her by being neglectful of her daily report or her manners.
“How is my granddaughter? Is she well?” the Dowager Duchess asked as she sipped her tea.
“She is well, Your Grace. She is sleeping, but she has eaten well and shows no signs of lethargy or any malady,” Beatrice replied.
“Thanks to your attentions I have no doubt. Doctor Whitmore has made me aware of your strict adherence to the regimen he has prescribed. I am glad to hear it. For many years, I thought you to be a silly, headstrong girl. You were obstinate and seemed to be as unruly as any ruffian who picks pockets, but then you know that was my opinion of you many years ago.”
To Beatrice, it was not many years ago but three months ago, that the Dowager Duchess greeted her with condescension and disgust. Every day, she ignored the old woman’s scowls and made her way to the nursery to see to Lady Lydia, and every day she seemed to notice that the scowls had lessened a bit until one day the Dowager Duchess asked her to tea. A truly momentous day. After that invitation, many more followed, and with it, the Dowager Duchess appeared to have altered her opinion if not her memory of her actions and attitude that were di
rected at Beatrice. If the venerable woman wished to recall her disapproval of Beatrice as being a distant memory, Beatrice had no intention of countering the woman’s error in thinking.
“Where are you off to at this time of day? Will you tea? Dear me, you look tired, my dear. You should take tea and have a cake. It would never do to have you fall ill, not when you have made yourself quite indispensable,” the Dowager Duchess replied.
Thinking of her long-neglected friends and the letters that were unwritten, Beatrice decided that she could manage to see that they were written that evening. That had been her original scheme, and so it did not pain her to be seated across from the duchess as she wrung a bell, signaling for a footman to appear.
“Have Cook send some broth. Beef or chicken, it does not matter,” the older woman commanded to the man.
Bowing, he was soon dispatched as Beatrice looked quizzically at the woman. “Broth? Are you ill? I presumed since you were seated in the drawing room that you must be in better health this afternoon.”
The Dowager Duchess exclaimed, “The broth is not for me; it is for you. You look to be quite fatigued. You should accompany me to take the waters this afternoon when I am due at the Pump Room. I do wish you would follow Doctor Whitmore’s advice regarding your own health as diligently as you follow it for the sake of my granddaughter.”
“I am not unwell; there is no need to worry yourself about me. I give you my word.”
“Say what you will, your color is positively pale and you are exhausted from your efforts on behalf of my family. You should have a rest, my dear, before illness overcomes you. I do not think I could bear to see you ill, and neither could Lydia. She is spoiled by you and do not think that I do not know that. I have known it for some time, but how can I disapprove of you when the child has no mother and no one in this world to see to her but me, her nurse, and her maid. Arthur is far too occupied with his business affairs these days.”
At the mention of Arthur’s name, Beatrice closed her eyes for a second, remembering summers long ago when they had been friends. There had been a time when she would have been sitting in the garden, taking tea with him, as his mother stared out the drawing-room window and scowled. Not anymore. Everything had changed. The Dowager Duchess welcomed her and the duke did not scowl at her but rarely spoke to her except in passing. Dismissing the wave of nostalgia and emotion that such memories often evoked, she opened her eyes again to see the Dowager Duchess staring at her, her gaze narrowed.
“Miss Edmundson, your eyes are closing, and it not yet dinner. A woman of your youthful age should not be suffering from fatigue so early in the day. My word, you can barely keep your eyes open; you are in need of more than broth," the Dowager Duchess stated in her way that brokered no argument.
Beatrice was not overly tired, nor was she falling ill, both of which she was about to declare even though the speaking of it would do her little good. When the formidable older woman formed a judgment, it was difficult to convince her that she may not be entirely correct. As Beatrice was just about to declare herself quite well, the Dowager Duchess turned her attention from her to the footman who arrived carrying a tray which held a tureen of aromatic broth, which he set down on the table in front of his mistress. Beatrice was not at all surprised that broth should be acquired so quickly as it was a common staple of the kitchen at the Dowager Duchess’s house and her own. Before departing from the room, the footman quietly made an announcement to his mistress.
“Doctor Whitmore to see you, Ma’am.”
“Just the person I wished to see. How providential that you have arrived as I was about to send for you, ” the Dowager Duchess replied.
Doctor Whitmore was shown into the drawing room, looking fashionable and handsome as he bowed to the Dowager Duchess and to Beatrice. His smile was bright, and so was the sparkle in his eyes, but he soon adopted a more somber tone, considering that he must be mindful that this house remained in a state of mourning and would be for many months to come, unlike his other patients whom he saw regularly. An adjustment she supposed that may have also been due to the presence of the Dowager Duchess and herself together, an uncommon sight to be sure, but one that she could not recall if the doctor had witnessed before that afternoon.
“I hope I am not intruding. My visit was not expected, but I was going by in my carriage and took it upon myself to see how you are both faring, and of course Lady Lydia," Doctor Whitmore replied. “It was fortuitous since you have need of me.”
“Your services are required, see how pale and tired Miss Edmundson is this afternoon. She can barely remain awake. I am anxious that she may become ill or demonstrate the weakness of condition which plagues her mother and myself that has been a burden I have borne for these many years. Doctor, see to our young acquaintance. Is there anything to be done?” the Dowager Duchess inquired as she looked fretfully in the direction of Beatrice.
Beatrice was not at all certain that she enjoyed being spoken of as if she was a chair or a small child. She had a voice and a will, which she could use any time she chose. These days, she may appear to be a proper young woman, but she still possessed her willful nature and her independent spirit, which was much concealed as necessity had required it of her. In a few sentences, she could have easily spoken on her own behalf, imperiously flouting the Dowager Duchess. Sighing, Beatrice chose, by her own free will, not to speak for herself just yet. Not in the Dowager Duchess’s drawing room. The great lady’s good opinion once earned may be precariously kept, and Beatrice did not wish for any ill effects of her behavior to affect her daily visits to see Lydia. With Lydia in mind, she sat quietly, waiting for the appropriate time when she may plead her own case.
“Examine her symptoms if you must, order a fresh pot of tea, I have a matter to attend to with my housekeeper,” the Dowager Duchess proclaimed.
Watching her leave, Beatrice felt the gaze of the young doctor upon her face. Turning to him, she politely asked an expected question, “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
“Thank you, no. Is it true, are you unwell? It would not do for you to fall ill,” he said softly.
“It would be dreadful to be too ill to see Lydia. I have come to care for the child, that I do not think I can bear to part with her,” Beatrice answered.
“Naturally, that would be a concern, but I humbly submit that I was thinking of the effects of your absence on this house. It would seem cold and lonely if you were not here, Miss Edmundson.”
“Lonely?” she asked, feeling her cheeks redden.
“Lonely indeed. His Grace is rarely here. The young Lady Lydia has a retinue of servants. I see that the Dowager Duchess rarely entertains with the exception of your mother and you and a few acquaintances. She is in mourning, and her health is frail; she has few companions to keep her occupied. Your absence would be tremendous.”
“My absence? Surely my presence here had not been a noticeable one.”
“I do not like to disagree with you, but you are quite mistaken. She dotes on you, positively considers you to be as favored as if you were a niece to her. Can you feign ignorance of the change that has come over Her Grace? Have you not noted her opinions where you are concerned are much altered?”
Beatrice regarded the doctor with an expression that suggested confusion, and then she had a moment where his words made sense as she exclaimed, “She did mention that you have spoken favorably of me. Is it you to whom I owe my gratitude? Is it you who have changed her opinion of me?”
Smiling, he answered, “I am not as humble as I should be. I cannot deny that I may have spoken of your praises when Her Grace was amiable and in good spirits.”
“To what do I owe this generosity?”
“Do not presume it was generosity which was the cause of my championing of you. I have my reasons, but I do not wish to disclose them at this hour. Shall we discuss you? Miss Edmundson, what of your health? The Dowager Duchess does not wish to be without you. Since she is my most prestigious patron, I must abide
by her wishes. Shall we consider your pale color and your exhausted state?”
“If I am pale, it because I have been indoors for far too long. Spending my time with Lydia has been the greatest happiness I have known, but I do wish you would permit me to dispel my duties out of doors. What can be the harm of allowing her to accompany me in the garden when the weather is warm and there is no fear of dampness or chill? Taking the air may do her good. As to my fatigue, that is entirely my doing. I do not rest as I should. I find that I worried for the baby, is she ill? Is she about to fall ill? Is there anything to be done to ensure her health?”
The expression he wore on his face was benevolent as always and amused, as he answered, “You have my word, as a physician, that Lady Lydia possesses her father’s noble constitution. She is not a weak or sickly child; neither is she prone to the maladies which affect the children of commoners. Have you not observed that her complexion is rosy, her appetite is good, and she grows quite adequately? It is the regime that I prescribed for her and your diligence in seeing it fulfilled that are the credit. If I forbid her from being outdoors for large amounts of time, it was purely a precaution as there was fever earlier in the season. With that danger of fever now passed, I am willing to suggest to the Dowager Duchess that her granddaughter being permitted outside as long as she sufficiently bundled and any sign of illness attended to at once.”
Beatrice’s exuberance that she should be permitted to care for the child outside in the garden made her happy. The child had been allowed to be carted about in her carriage, but not for very long. How Beatrice longed to see the baby out of the dreary house and in the garden, where there were blooms and butterflies to strike her fancy. The sun and air would do her good—and herself, if she was to be honest. With a feeling of joy in her heart, she fought the temptation to embrace the doctor out of youthful exuberance and gratitude. From the expression of contentment that was on his face, she doubted that he would object.
Regency Engagements Box Set Page 16
