Chapter 11

Then I said, I will not make mention of him, nor speak any more in his name. But his word was in mine heart as a burning fire shut up in my bones, and I was weary with forbearing, and I could not stay.

—Jeremiah 20:9, The Authorized Version (1611)

For only the second time in her life, Beatrice kept a secret from her dear mother. And really it was only a partial secret, for in her letter she had given a full report of the doings at Bognor to that point, if not of her subsequent feelings. But she suspected Tyrone and Aggie had made a more thorough account.

A much more thorough one.

If she required any confirmation of this, it came in the form of her parents and siblings showing an almost insulting lack of curiosity about her holiday. They questioned her about the sea and bathing and learning to swim and what the views and town amenities were like, certainly, but in every case, even if Beatrice deliberately mentioned Mr. Clayton or Tyrone or Aggie accidentally did, no one ever pursued the subject, despite their compressed lips and glinting eyes declaring their desire to do so. It was not as if Beatrice went out of her way to mention him—of course not—she had not meant to mention him at all. But to avoid mentioning him altogether proved impossible, and the more she tried to do it, the more frequently she found herself tiptoeing around him. For, honestly, how could Bognor or bathing or swimming or the assembly be spoken of without speaking—if only in passing—of him? To erase his presence would leave puzzling pauses and awkward narrative gaps. Her perseverance paid off eventually, in that Tyrone and Aggie ceased to flinch if Mr. Clayton came up, and once even Beatrice's stepfather Mr. Wolfe read something from the newspaper about the Regent's Canal without everyone else in the family immediately leaping upon him to administer a figurative rap of the knuckles.

But no one, not even Tyrone and Aggie, knew about Beatrice's last conversation with Mr. Clayton. And no one knew about that last clasp of their hands.

It had indeed been the last of everything. For not two days afterward a wagon drew up before Number Five, Spencer Terrace, to cart the trunks and persons of Mr. Clayton, Miss Brand, and Miss Croy to the coaching inn in Chichester. There followed warm but stilted farewells between the inhabitants of Numbers Four and Five. Tyrone spoke of seeing the progress on the Cumberland Arm when next he was in London, but all was left general and vague.

The Ellsworths remained another ten days, each determined not to admit to the others how flat things seemed after Mr. Clayton's departure. And then, as October drew to a close and word came that Beatrice's parents the Wolfes were once more at Beaumond, the Ellsworths packed their things and returned to Winchester.

But home had changed.

How was it, Beatrice wondered, that everything so familiar appeared in a new and strange light? Here was her sweet, rose-papered bedchamber; here were her dear parents and beloved extended family; here was the plump and sleepy cat Cupid which her mama had given her when they removed from Hollowgate. Here, in fact, was exactly the calm and peaceful life she had described to Mr. Clayton, and which he had admired. So why did it feel…why did she feel…restless?

And when discussion of her trip to Bognor naturally diminished, giving way to newer tidings like her younger brothers' school adventures or her niece losing her first tooth, Beatrice began both to hope and to fear she would never hear Mr. Clayton spoken of again.

Something so momentous has happened to me, she thought. Can it possibly be invisible to those who love me best? Equal parts doubt and remorse consumed her. After all, was it not better that her struggles be invisible? That they be buried in oblivion? Even as she sat at her needlework, Miss Brand and Mr. Clayton might be preparing for their wedding, after all. They might even be already married by license. To talk of him or her feelings toward him would not only be fruitless, it might even be wicked.

But as the days passed, the burden Beatrice carried grew heavier, until at last, one Sunday after church, she begged her mama Mrs. Wolfe to accompany her on a walk.

Raising a dubious brow as he regarded the November rain speckling the windows, Mr. Wolfe said, "If it's privacy you're after, Beatrice, I can easily retreat to the library. No need for you two to risk a chill."

"If you please, then," said Beatrice meekly.

With his back to her, her stepfather bent to drop a kiss on his wife's hair, giving her the barest wink as he straightened. For while it seemed to Beatrice that her unhappiness escaped notice, her mama had been wringing her hands over it throughout, requiring several times her husband's patient soothings.

As soon as they were alone Beatrice flung herself at her stepmother. "Mama," she moaned into Mrs. Wolfe's neck, "I have a dreadful confession to make."

Wrapping her arm about her daughter's shoulder, Mrs. Wolfe murmured soothingly. "There, there, darling. Shhhh…You know I will love you all the same, but let us hear it."

"It's—about the Mr. Clayton we met at Bognor," she whispered. "You remember—the man who saved me when my gown was pinned beneath the bathing machine wheel."

Miranda could not repress a shiver, but she said simply, "I remember."

Once begun, Beatrice told the whole tale from the moment he wrenched her upward to air and life, only pausing from time to time to dash away an embarrassing tear or to wait for the heat in her face to subside. And her mother did not once interrupt, though sometimes she would nod or her arm would tighten around her.

"So you see?" her daughter choked. "It is all hopeless, and I will never see him again. Or if I do, he and Miss Brand will be married, so it's all the same. He was never anything but friendly and kind—oh, perhaps if Miss Brand had not existed, I might have won him in time—" Here she broke off, flushing again and hiding her face. "No, Mama, you can see I haven't repented because I think he could have loved me, if he were free, and I take comfort in the thought, though I shouldn't! And—and—worse, I—still love him, though I shouldn't do that either, only I don't know how one stops!"

Miranda rested her cheek again Beatrice's tumbled hair. Ah, poor girl. Poor darling. Finally to have the miracle happen to her, and to have it be doomed! And how lovely this Mr. Clayton sounded! Miranda would have loved him already for rescuing her girl, but to hear how he had suggested her learning to swim, to overcome her fear…To hear of his hard-working and lonely life which had somehow neither embittered him nor made him unwilling to try things outside his purview. Nor was Beatrice alone in praising John Clayton. Both Tyrone and Aggie had confided in her, making their own guilty confessions for having sought the man's company before they knew he was engaged, not only for Beatrice's sake but because they themselves liked him so well.

If there was one criticism Miranda could level, it was that he ought to have held himself aloof from the Ellsworths, knowing his situation. But would that even have been possible? She frowned, considering. In the aftermath of the near-drowning, of course, the Ellsworths had embraced him without forethought, in gratitude and high emotion. And Mr. Clayton, alone as he was, could he be blamed for being willing to be thus embraced? Miranda couldn't see it. And, then, once the acquaintance was begun and so thoroughly enjoyed all around, when would have been the moment for Mr. Clayton to issue a warning?

She sighed. No. It was a tragedy, but one which could probably not have been avoided. And being a very fond mother, she did not doubt Mr. Clayton might have loved Beatrice, had he been a free man. Perhaps, if Beatrice's description of the grasp of her hand at the assembly had not been her own wishful thinking, he had even been tempted to.

But that was neither here nor there. Mr. Clayton was not a free man, nor did he seem a dishonorable one who would break his promise to the fortunate Miss Brand. Therefore he must be rooted from Beatrice's heart, quickly and completely, lest her suffering begin to tell on her health or cost her any future happiness with another person.

"Mama," Beatrice was sniffling to her conclusion, "the worst of it is, since we have returned, everything seems so—so ‘weary, stale, flat and unprofitable'! I am restless and unhappy, though I try not to be, honestly I do. I continue to do all the things I have always done, which used to bring me such satisfaction, but at the end of the day I still feel like crawling into my bed and sleeping for a hundred years. Am I hopeless? Ungrateful? To have so much, yet appreciate it so little?"

"No, my dearest girl, you are doing everything you ought to, to overcome your heartbreak," said Mrs. Wolfe decidedly. "And I am proud of you for the efforts you have made. I know how steadfast you are in your loyalties—a quality I would never wish changed in you—but in situations like these, such a trait can…impede the recovery of your usual tranquility."

"Yes," Beatrice sighed. "It will just take time, I suppose. Time and time and time, and nothing can be done to hasten it."

Here her stepmother paused, weighing a decision. Her husband Colin had been in favor of it and she herself undecided, but now Beatrice's confession effectively turned the scale.

"There is…one thing which might hasten it," she murmured.

Beatrice straightened, her eyes red and hair disheveled. "What, Mama?"

Taking a slow breath, Miranda answered, "Mr. Wolfe received a letter from his sister Lady Hufton yesterday. You remember Lady Hufton, of course."

"Of course," said Beatrice. "She visited Mr. Wolfe before you and he were engaged."

"Yes. Well, she and her husband Sir John have two daughters, if you recall, and they had originally thought to take the elder, Miss Marjorie Hufton, to London in November for the season, now that she has finished school, and Miss Hufton always expressed herself eager to go."

"But she fell suddenly ill, did she not, and the plans were cancelled? I remember you and Mr. Wolfe talking about it shortly after I returned from Bognor."

"That was indeed what Lady Hufton told us, but now—" Miranda swallowed. "I tell you this in confidence, Bea. But Lady Hufton now writes to say that Miss Hufton was only feigning illness."

"Feigning! But whatever for? Did she not want to go after all?"

A sigh. "She was feigning illness because she formed a most regrettable attachment to one of the Stourwood Park grooms. A man who, besides being one of the Huftons' own servants, is much older and sadly given to drink. Therefore they will be smuggling their daughter to London after all—over her protests—and Lady Hufton has asked us if we would like to send you as a friend and companion to her."

Beatrice's eyes widened in alarm. "Send me to London? But I have never even met Miss Hufton! Why would they ask for me? Or do you mean they want all three of us to go, you and me and Mr. Wolfe?"

"It happens they particularly would like you, Beatrice," Miranda answered with a smile. "In fact, Lady Hufton said that, while she would delight in seeing Mr. Wolfe and me as well, it is your company they especially covet. You see, you and Miss Hufton are now cousins of a sort, by marriage, and you are the closest cousin of any kind in age to her. Moreover, Lady Hufton praised your calm, sensible demeanor, Beatrice. She thinks you might lift Miss Hufton's spirits—in addition to amusing yourself."

But Beatrice was already shaking her head in panicked refusal. "Oh, no, Mama! I am sorry to disappoint Mr. Wolfe's family, but I simply couldn't! It's impossible—go to London? What if I were to encounter Mr. Clayton again? Oh—no—no. I'm sorry, but no."

"Of course I thought of all that when Mr. Wolfe and I discussed the invitation," replied Miranda. "He and I had already agreed we ourselves would not go, so soon after having been absent in Kent, but whether or not you should go required more thought. The possibility of your meeting Mr. Clayton again was my chief qualm, of course."

Beatrice drew back to look at her. "What qualms should you or Mr. Wolfe have had, if you did not yet know I cared for Mr. Clayton? No—don't tell me! Did Tyrone and Aggie say? Or was it so obvious?"

"Tyrone and Aggie only said they were sorry for not having been more on their guard—not that Mr. Clayton had done anything wrong—and—oh, Beatrice—it has been plain to me, at least, that you have not been…as you were. Not that it does not relieve my heart somewhat to have you confide in me. Therefore I too disliked Lady Hufton's proposal. For how could we hope and pray for you to be made heart-whole again, while at the same time putting you in danger of being wounded anew?"

"And—what did Mr. Wolfe say?"

Miranda's expression was wry. "He said that, firstly, the most recent census of the capital reported a population of over a million people, which made the odds of a chance encounter low. Of that million people, he went on to say, perhaps five hundred to a thousand make up the fashionable world where, presumably, the Huftons intend to take their place. Therefore, the question would be, from what we knew of Mr. Clayton and Miss Brand, would they be expected to join this set?"

With a mixture of chagrin and faint amusement at her stepfather's matter-of-factness, Beatrice once again shook her head. "I think not. Miss Brand once spoke half in jest of wishing to meet a duke, but certainly Mr. Clayton never said anything of the kind. Any ‘important' people he meets with would be in the course of his work, I suppose, and not in social settings. Nor did he seem troubled by that, as if he would change it, if he could."

"Yes, we arrived at the same conclusion: that your paths would be unlikely to cross." Miranda took Beatrice's hands between her own. "Now that was the first thing Mr. Wolfe said regarding the matter. The second was that it was one thing for the Huftons to kidnap their daughter to protect her from a drunken groom's company, but quite another for us to hide you in the country, to ‘protect' you from an honorable man whom you likely would not even encounter. Mr. Wolfe asked if it would be advisable for you to forego this opportunity for amusement and novelty and education out of fear of something which might not even happen." A squeeze of the hands. "Before you went to Bognor I would have dismissed this latter argument and said you were content at home, with neither desire nor need to seek distractions, but now I wonder…"

Beatrice was silent, her gaze abstracted. She was remembering Mr. Clayton after her bathing accident, in the drawing room of Number Four, Spencer Terrace. They had barely known each other at the time, but she could hear again his low, pleasant voice saying, "While your brother and sister might deem wrapping you in cotton wool for the remainder of your stay a comfortable resolution, I have always thought it advisable to face a fear, if one hopes to overcome it."

The Beaumond parlor was quiet, save for the tapping of the rain on the windowpanes and the solemn ticking of the mantel clock. As she waited for her daughter's decision, Miranda felt tempted to yield, to assure Beatrice she might do whatever she pleased, no matter what her parents thought, but she held her peace.

Finally Beatrice spoke. "It would not be out of desire for amusement or novelty or the like that I would want to go, Mama, though—" with a mirthless chuckle "—I suppose it would be a novelty to think of somebody other than myself for a change! I would want to go because—Mr. Wolfe—is right. I should not let fear prevent me from…experiencing life."

"Ah," breathed her mother. She raised Beatrice's hands to her lips and then pressed her cheek against them. "That's my brave girl. You shall conquer this, Beatrice. See if you don't."