Chapter 18

It is better to dwell in the wilderness, than with a contentious and an angry woman.

—Proverbs 21:19, The Authorized Version (1611)

Finding a private moment to compose a supplicatory letter to Mr. Rotherwood proved easier said than done, for Beatrice awoke to discover her once-sulky stepcousin Marjorie had swung like a pendulum to exultation.

"I've lost my heart!" Marjorie cried, whirling like a madwoman in Beatrice's bedchamber before flinging herself across the counterpane. "And I must be a sad flirt, for who could have imagined I might forget Sam so quickly?"

"If you have, it's glad I am to hear it, miss," spoke up the maid Crook as she unbraided Beatrice's hair to brush it out. "For if anyone's a sad flirt, it's Sam Hughes."

Instantly Marjorie sat up, eyes narrowing and nose wrinkling. "You hold your tongue! I may prefer someone else now, Crook, but I still won't hear a word against Sam. I know everyone from below stairs at Stourwood Park was jealous, as servants will be, if any one of them receives special favor."

"It wasn't the favor, so much as Hughes getting ideas above his station," persisted Crook, undaunted by her mistress's command or show of temper. "Sir John and Lady Hufton were right to take you away, and most of us were of a mind Hughes should be dismissed at once, if not for his mother working for the family since Sir John was in his cradle."

"Wh-whom do you prefer now?" Beatrice interjected hastily, having already felt Crook's brush strokes increase in speed and vigor.

The distraction succeeded, for her cousin left off disputing with the maid to regard her archly. "Not Mr. Rotherwood, as you do, Beatrice, so you needn't fear."

"Mr. Rotherwood! I have no designs on him."

"Pooh. That's all gammon. I saw how you looked at him and tried to get him to yourself," Marjorie said. "But I should say, even though he did glance your way before he left, I don't think he felt any more for you than any other girl there, so it would be better not to pin your hopes to him."

"My hopes aren't the least bit pinned to him!" cried Beatrice, swelling with indignation.

"But you won't be the only one disappointed," continued her cousin, not listening. "—Think if Lady Sylvia fails to attach him! Mr. Dodson was telling me how the ‘Rotherwood Wedding Wagers' are up to a thousand pounds now, in sum, with the odds still favoring the earl's daughter. But I'll grant you, in Mr. Dodson's opinion, you have at least an even chance."

Beatrice could not believe her ears. "You—you let the man speak of me, in such a context?" she gasped.

"What? What are you going red about? Yes, he spoke of you, as did I. We got into quite an amusing little argument about it as we danced."

Thrusting aside the hairbrush Crook applied to her, Beatrice sprang to her feet. "For shame, Marjorie Hufton! Bandying my name about with someone you hardly knew, while he spoke of betting books! I—I take offense at it, when I have only shown kindness to you."

"Goodness me, how you fire up," observed Marjorie, cocking her head to one side. "Is it the fact that Mr. Dodson and I discussed you, or is it really that this touches you to the quick? Because I say if you do like Mr. Rotherwood, it needn't be some great secret, when half the girls in London are determined to be in love with him."

"I am not in love with Mr. Rotherwood!" Beatrice fairly roared.

"You see how candid I am with you," said Marjorie, folding her hands over her breast with an air of deprecating humility which made Beatrice want to kick her. "And I believe it always best to be honest with oneself."

"I am being honest with myself, as well as with you," she replied through gritted teeth. "I have no wish to marry Mr. Rotherwood. None whatsoever. If I—looked in any particular way at him, it was not for that reason."

"Oh, please. Then what reason was it, Miss Petulant?"

"It was because I was eager to—to make a business proposal to him."

This prompted derisive snorts from both Marjorie and Crook, but when Beatrice only raised her chin, crossing her arms over her midsection, mirth gave way to incredulity. Marjorie's mouth popped open, and Crook left off shaking out and brushing Beatrice's discarded attire to gawp at her.

"Business proposal?" repeated Marjorie. "What on earth can you possibly mean? Have you something to sell to him?"

In truth, Beatrice would have preferred to keep her canvassing of Mr. Rotherwood secret, not only because she might fail, but also because her unconventional conduct would certainly be deemed unladylike. But if Marjorie was going to accuse her of setting her cap for Mr. Rotherwood, there was no alternative but to tell the bald truth.

Taking a steadying breath, she resumed her seat and patted the cushion beside her. "Let me explain. It has to do with Mr. Clayton's work. You know that—that I—consider him a friend, from having known him at Bognor. Well. He is the secretary and chief engineer of an arm to be built off the Regent's Canal, but before work can begin, he needs investors to buy shares of it." She folded her hands in her lap, but her knuckles were white with the tightness of her grip. "So, in an attempt to be of assistance, I—thought Mr. Rotherwood would be a good person to…canvass. Therefore, I told him at Almack's I had something of the sort to say, and he told me I might write to him about it. That is the whole of the matter."

Instead of appearing reassured by this declaration, Marjorie was shaking her head decidedly before the end of it. "See here, Beatrice. I know you are not much used to society and have spent most of your life buried in Winchester, but I am a baronet's daughter, and you ought to be guided by me. No, no—hear me out. I am sorry to tell you, but well-bred young ladies do not intrude themselves in such situations. What would your parents say? Advising Mr. Rotherwood on what he should do with his money! Indeed, he will not thank you for your interference, and nor will Mr. Clayton. Selling shares in a canal? Why, you might as well go and hawk butchered hogs in Smithfield Market!"

Before Marjorie had finished this speech, Beatrice was scarlet with indignation. To be condescended to by a girl two years her junior, who, if not for her parents' interposal, would have pledged herself to a household servant with a reputation for drunkenness and flirtation? What right had Marjorie Hufton to be dispensing advice? A fig for her "baronet's daughter"!

"Mr. Clayton knows of my intention," Beatrice rejoined at last, vexed to find her voice shaking, "and he has made no objection. And if Mr. Rotherwood disapproves of my actions, I daresay he will be gentleman enough to say nothing of it to others."

"Mr. Clayton knows you intended this?" marveled her cousin. "Well. Well! Goodness. But I suppose he has not been much in society either, if he saw nothing improper in it. But I assure you, he ought not to have enlisted you. So very, very unseemly! I would not be surprised if Mama asks Papa to have a word with him, to enlighten him and ensure he does not talk of it where he shouldn't."

Beatrice was on her feet again. She could stand Marjorie's criticisms of her—to a point—but undeserved aspersions of Mr. Clayton were not to be borne.

"If you tell Lady Hufton, and she tells Sir John, there is nothing I can do about it, but I will certainly speak up in Mr. Clayton's defense. He is no gossip. He was not the one tossing my name about at Almack's and mentioning it in the same sentence as ‘bets' and ‘odds'! That you would do so, Marjorie Hufton, I consider most uncousinly and reprehensible." In this retort, Beatrice made an unfortunate misstep, but she did it completely unawares. That is, she hardly suspected Marjorie would take a reproach squarely aimed at her and apply it instead to Mr. Dodson.

Thus it was Marjorie's turn to bolt up, arms akimbo and beady eyes flashing. "Mr. Dodson is not a gossip!" she snapped. "It is not gossip for him to speak to me of my own cousin, and I see it as more friendly than otherwise for him to warn me of possible dangers and disappointments. Can he help it if he knows the contents of betting books? Can he help it if he's a member of various exclusive clubs? This is what I mean about you having no understanding of society, Beatrice Ellsworth. Worthy young men of the world like Mr. Dodson are driven by—by chivalry alone!"

"Bother his chivalry, then," Beatrice retorted, "and bother his worthiness!"

Marjorie was as flushed as Beatrice, but she was a great deal more used to fighting than the latter, having spent her childhood opposing her younger sister and, more recently, her parents. Though she had been forced to yield to the latter, giving up her wretched groom to come to London, she had nevertheless succeeded in exacting her pound of flesh through sullenness and sauciness, as Beatrice had witnessed.

"How dare you!" Miss Hufton cried now, swelling up even as Beatrice shrank with chagrin at her own loss of control. "How dare you sneer at the virtues of a man's character?"

Tears starting to her eyes (though they were provoked in equal part by anger and dismay), Beatrice choked, "Pardon me for my outburst, cousin. It's—it's true that I don't know Mr. Dodson and cannot therefore judge his motives. But you must understand that I don't care to hear my—friends—maligned."

Despite what this effort to smooth Marjorie's ruffled feathers cost Beatrice, her cousin did not reward her with any corresponding softening.

"Nor do Icare to hear my friends maligned," Marjorie said with a scowl. "And Mr. Dodson is now my friend. That is what I came in here to tell you, only you and Crook were so provoking. I was so happy, but you had to spoil my mood."

After such an introduction to Mr. Dodson, Beatrice was not predisposed to love him, but she managed to reply, "That was not my intention. I am…glad for you, Marjorie."

Her cousin merely viewed her with glittering eyes, but the maid thrust herself between them, holding up Beatrice's pink and white poplin. "Don't you mind her, Miss Ellsworth. She's always had a right temper on her."

This perceived confederation between the family maid and upstart stepcousin only added fuel to the flames, however, and Marjorie stood simmering, waiting for Beatrice's head to reappear through the neckline of the dress before she attacked again.

"I don't think you're glad for me one bit," she accused. "I think you just don't want me to go telling tales on you."

That was true enough, and Beatrice's hesitation unfortunately only confirmed the assertion. Before she could muster either the will to deny it or a convincing lie, however, her cousin gave one last irate sniff and flounced from the room with a mighty slam of the door.

"Oh, dear," sighed Beatrice.

Clicking her tongue and wagging her head, Crook began to tuck in Beatrice's chemisette. "Temper, temper. From the time she was a child. You're cooked now, miss, sorry to say. What you've got on your hands now is war."

"War?" Beatrice echoed, her eyes round. "What a word to use, Crook!"

"Some words are just right for the purpose," answered the maid with a shrug. "And when you run afoul of Miss Hufton, it's war, all right, and war to the knife."

16 Green Street

London

24 November 1814

Dear Mr. Rotherwood,

It was an honor to meet you and to dance with you yesterday at Almack's. Please forgive both my boldness in accepting your offer to write to you and the hasty nature of this message. For fear of offending my relations or being forbidden altogether to send this, I do so in haste, without time to beat about the bush or even to make a fair copy.

Despite these apologies, however, what I wished to speak with you about was not a bit scandalous. It was only related to our talk of the wonders of London. Many of those wonders do indeed date from long, long ago, but I hope there are still some yet to be built. I have had the honor of becoming acquainted with Mr. John Clayton, chief engineer and administrative secretary for the planned Cumberland Arm of the new Regent's Canal, and have been captured by the vision he proposes. When his work is complete, goods from everywhere in the world may be brought directly into the heart of London by one of two routes: via the Grand Junction Canal to the Regent's to the Cumberland Arm; or alternately, in the other direction from Limehouse to the Regent's Canal to the Cumberland Arm. You see what an unprecedented reduction in transportation costs and time this will be to the sellers and manufacturers and traders, with corresponding benefits to all London buyers.

Mr. Clayton is at present seeking subscribers for this undertaking, and each share may be had for ￡10. I myself will be purchasing a share.

I suspect you have many demands on your fortune, but I hope you will consider this one. If you find it to your liking, investments may be made through Mr. Clayton's lawyer, Mr. Alan Braham of Cursitor Street.

Your obedient servant,

Beatrice Ellsworth

It was not a composition to rejoice in, surely failing to persuade anyone out of a halfpenny, much less a hundred pounds. To make matters worse, her usually flawless hand was untidy and the page marred by more than one blot, but hunched at her escritoire, fearing every moment Lady Hufton's knock, Beatrice was relieved to have produced anything at all so quickly.

Cracking her door two inches, she hissed and beckoned to the nearest servant. "Take this to the Rotherwoods in North Audley Street. I don't know the number of the house, but it was the third or fourth from the end along the eastern side, as you go toward Grosvenor Square. And for pity's sake, confirm with whoever answers the door that you are delivering it to the correct place."

"Do I wait for an answer?" asked the footman with a disapproving frown. He could foresee the mistress rating him soundly for fulfilling this errand and wished he had not been just then at the head of the stairs.

"No, no. There will be no answer," she assured him, which was true enough. Mr. Rotherwood could hardly be expected to respond instantly; moreover, she had not asked in her letter to be told what he decided in either case. An oversight, perhaps, but she did not want to justify any of Marjorie's denunciations by engaging in a genuine correspondence with the man, and she hadn't time to change the note now. No—she would simply have to wait and hope. And if, by a miracle, Mr. Rotherwood did decide to invest, and if, by a second miracle, Mr. Clayton should see her again and tell her of it, that would be soon enough to celebrate. Oh, how she hoped there would be something to celebrate! Mr. Clayton had been so brusque and cold the previous evening—she would like to believe it was because his business cares weighed on him, and not because of anything she had said or done. With Marjorie's accusations drumming in her head, Beatrice now feared he shared or would come to share her cousin's opinion, thinking that Beatrice behaved in an unfeminine, reprehensible manner.

She heaved a sigh. Well, if he did, it was out of her hands now. Literally.

In the meantime she must endure not knowing. That, and the unpleasantness with Marjorie.

Squaring her shoulders, she descended to join the Huftons in the breakfast room. The meal had been cleared away, but in the armchairs by the window still sat Lady Hufton and Marjorie at their needlework and warming himself at the fire stood Sir John. From the moment of her entrance, Beatrice sensed the strained atmosphere. The baronet made her a short bow, his eyes skating past her to meet his wife's. Clearly Lady Hufton had been taxed with taking charge of the Situation. Marjorie kept her own gaze trained on her tambour frame, but Beatrice saw the corners of her lips curl.

"Ah, good morning, dear girl," began Lady Hufton, laying down the mending of her husband's shirt. "Do come sit down. We missed you at breakfast, but Crook tells me she brought you toast."

Had Beatrice not been fretting over what lay ahead, she might have pitied the older woman, having to contend with these new trials so soon after congratulating herself on Marjorie's improvement.

"Good morning. Yes, she did," said Beatrice. Taking up her own workbasket, she chose the seat farthest from Marjorie, deliberating. Would it be best to open the attack, rather than be forced into a defensive position? Yes, surely. It would show goodwill and perhaps go some way toward appeasing Lady Hufton. Judging by Marjorie's barely hidden smugness, it might already be too late. "I had a note to write."

"Yes, so Marjorie told us."

There was a pause, in which Beatrice stitched while Lady Hufton worried her lip.

Beatrice shut her eyes briefly. Let them have it all out and be done with it. "And I—sent it. My note."

"Oh, my." More lip worrying. But when Beatrice took a breath, determined to begin her explanation, Lady Hufton raised a hand to stop her. "Wait a moment, please. Am I correct in understanding this note was addressed to Mr. St. John Rotherwood? I see. Oh, dear. Oh, my. No—no—please—allow me to speak. My dear girl, I had better say straight off that such things—writing to young men—really ought not to be done, for whatever reasons, unless you are engaged to the person in question, which is not the case here—"

"I know that, madam," Beatrice interrupted. "Truly I do, and I—have no intention of defying such a-a-a rule in general, but this was not me writing to him as a young lady to a gentleman, per se, but rather simply as one person to another person. I only wanted to make a-a-a recommendation, you see. A business proposal."

Lady Hufton passed a hand before her eyes. "Yes, yes. Frankly, I don't know if a ‘business proposal' isn't worse! Marjorie said it was something to do with Mr. Clayton's canal…?"

"It was," said Beatrice, unhappy to find her aunt shared Marjorie's opinion. "I thought Mr. Rotherwood, having so much money, might like to buy shares in the project."

Beginning to fan herself, Lady Hufton glanced again at her husband, but Sir John only cleared his throat and fiddled with the glass door covering the face of the mantel clock. "Oh, my dear," she said again, "while you are in London, you are under Sir John's and my care. We stand in loco parentis, and I believe I may safely say that your parents, my brother Colin and Mrs. Wolfe, would not like you to…write to strange young men, nor to…interfere in such a masculine province as—as raising sums of money, to say nothing of canal-building. Please promise me you will refrain in future."

For a minute, Beatrice only stitched, the handkerchief she was embroidering for her stepmother blurring before her eyes, but she willed no tears to fall. She would not cry. She would not give Marjorie the satisfaction of seeing her weep. Swallowing, she succeeded in mastering herself so far as to give a clear nod.

Yes.

She would refrain in future.

It pained her to promise, for what if Mr. Clayton did not succeed in raising the necessary funds? And what if he thought she had forgotten her assurances of help?

I will tell him,she decided. The next time I see him. If I see him. I will tell him that, however much I would like to, I have been forbidden to do so.

But the worst was not yet over. For after releasing a long, relieved breath and giving Beatrice's forearm a squeeze, Lady Hufton said more cheerily, "Thank you for that. My goodness! Of course you girls cannot know of the dangers lurking under every bush and behind every post—I say this only half in jest. What is the world coming to? It used to be one could trust not encountering such folk—‘engineers' and builders and their ilk—in Mayfair. I blame Lord Stanley. An earl ought to know better than to be forcing an engineer on folk who are not used to such things. I'm sure Mr. Clayton is harmless in his way, but a gentleman would never think of asking a well-bred young lady to—Oh, heavens! What is it, Beatrice?"

For the latter had gone crimson as a boiled lobster and was now clutching the crumpled ball which had been her sewing. "Mr. Clayton is a gentleman," she declared in a shaking voice. "And he did not ask me to help him. I offered."

"Well, if he had indeed been a well-bred man, he would have known to reject such an offer," spoke up Marjorie, her pointed chin outthrust.

"I was flattered that he did not reject my offer," insisted Beatrice. "I thought it showed trust and—and respect for me."

"And why should you care if some ambitious young nobody trusts and respects you?" demanded her stepcousin, almost jeering. "One might almost think you cared for him!"

If possible, Beatrice went even redder, and Lady Hufton, who had been on the point of remonstrating to her daughter, froze mid-upraised-finger to stare. Any doubt she might have had that Marjorie had struck home was dispelled the next instant when Beatrice burst into furious, humiliated tears.

With a cough, Sir John fled the room, leaving the calamity to his wife, and even Marjorie clapped a horrified hand to her mouth, squeaking, "No! Then it's true? You do care for him?"

No answer was needed, even if she had been capable of it, there being such a confession in her looks, and it was all Beatrice could do to cover her face and try to stifle her sobs.

And poor Lady Hufton, a woman not given at all to fainting, began all at once to see the allure of it. The speed of her fanning increased, and she could hardly draw breath. "You have come to care for an engaged man? Oh, merciful heaven! To yearn for an engaged man and seek to make him beholden to you! Oh, Lord. It would have been better after all, had you been writing love notes to Mr. Rotherwood! That, at least, the world would understand, even if it could not be condoned. But—this, Beatrice!"

That was all Beatrice could bear. Heedless of Lady Hufton's distress or Marjorie Hufton's horrified triumph—heedless even of the servants who scattered when she burst from the room, she made her blind, stumbling escape.