15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

A silence more terrible than anything Beatrice had ever heard before reigned supreme in the sitting room in the wake of the colonel's departure. She'd heard the awful quiet that happened after a disappointing performance, and this was akin to that; it was all the more wretched, however, for how close and personal it was.

A kind of lightning-flash of anger lanced through Beatrice's head and heart, and she felt as if she could spit fire. She was sorely tempted to do just that, but was waylaid by the fact that Sophia's little shoulders trembled beneath the arm that Beatrice had placed about them.

"Did we do very badly?" Sophia asked at length, breaking the curse of silence that they were all labouring under.

"You did not," Beatrice assured her, squeezing her shoulders in reassurance. "You might have waited to pick a fight with your father at a more opportune moment," she added with a hard look at Florence.

"Me?" the girl asked, her cheeks growing pink. "I did no such thing!"

Miss Heart gave her a look from beneath her brows that bespoke her scepticism at that statement. "I do not say that your feelings are wrong, nor that you do not have a right to express them; I do, however, say unequivocally that you should learn to pick your moments to strike with more discretion." Beatrice paused, glancing about the table. "Did you notice, or have a care for, the fact that all of your sisters' hard work was for naught now?"

To her credit, Florence's eyes flicked around the table, and the colour on her cheeks spread to her neck. "I do not know why I should put their finer feelings above my own," Florence muttered sullenly, her lower lip pouting out a little.

"Because they are your sisters," Beatrice said sharply, with more force than she had intended. "You do not know how lucky you are to have them; some have no family at all, and here you are with two whole sisters for companionship. They will be there to share your triumphs and your grief—that is one thing that you have in common with them that no one else does."

"They do not even remember Mother," Florence huffed, but despite her blasé attitude, her eyes had gone glassy with emotion.

"I do," Eliza said quietly, the first words she had spoken for a long while. She still looked down at her hands, the fingers laced together. "I remember her taking us on picnics, and how she played the harp. She always let me chase frogs, and didn't mind that I got my dress dirty."

Florence stared for a moment, but refused to give in. "Whatever you might remember, Sophia surely does not—she was far too young. So you see, we have no great commonality between us," she concluded defiantly.

"Do you not see how that is worse ?" Beatrice demanded, drawing Sophia closer unconsciously. "She has no good memories of her mother to soothe the grief. You remember her loving you, which is a privilege Sophia will never have."

Florence looked from Eliza to Sophia, then back again. All the faces around the table were flushed with emotion, and more than one lip trembled. They did not rush to embrace one another as girls might in a sentimental novel, but there was something more vulnerable in the way they looked upon one another.

"Now," Beatrice said, standing and releasing Sophia, who looked up at her with wide, alarmed eyes at her departure, "I am going to have a word with your father. Florence, as you are the oldest, I am entrusting the care of your sisters to you. I know that I shan't be disappointed."

A determined look crossed Florence's face, and as one, she and Eliza scooted their chairs farther apart. "Here," Florence said, her tone and face considerably softer, "come sit between us, Sophia. Father might not care to finish the cake, but I certainly do, and I imagine you do, too. Eliza, why don't you tell us that story about the time you rolled all the way down the hill on the back lawn? That always makes us laugh."

Satisfied, Beatrice straightened her dress and her spine. The moment that she turned away from the tea table, her face lost all of its remaining softness, hardening into an unflinching mask of anger. The footman, who had maintained an admirable distant expression through the unfortunate scene that had played out just moments before, glanced at Beatrice. This glance was all that it took for him to swallow hard, and immediately begin floundering for the door latch.

Once in the hallway, Beatrice stalked through the house. She moved with the single-mindedness of some sort of jungle cat, all instinct focused on one singular goal. Everything else was periphery to her; when a maid squeaked and scurried to get out of her way, it barely registered with Beatrice. She did not know what she was going to say, only that she had a driving conviction that she must say something.

The heavy, imposing door to the library, carved in ornate patterns and worn smooth by centuries of hands, did not even slow her down. She simply crashed through it with all the grace and subtlety of a bull through a fence, not even pausing to knock. She had little doubt that this is where the colonel had retreated to, and she was proven right when she saw him sitting at his desk.

Beatrice had half-thought that she might find him with his head buried in his hands, or otherwise in some grief-stricken pose. Instead, he was sitting behind his desk, back perfectly straight, and staring directly ahead into the hearth. His hands were gripping the arms of his chair with such force that his knuckles were white.

"What, precisely, is the matter with you?" she demanded, stuffing her hands onto her hips. The colonel did not acknowledge her, did not so much as glance in her direction. She strode closer, craning her neck to glare at him. His own eyes were misty and distant, as if he were miles and years away.

"Colonel Hillmot," she said, raising her voice. Young ladies were generally taught to speak in small, gentle voices, but Beatrice had been trained for the stage; when she wished to make herself heard, she was certainly capable of it. She stood directly next to his desk, and repeated, "Colonel Hillmot!"

Still nothing. Beatrice sucked in a deep breath, rolling her eyes a little. And they say women are prone to hysteria , she groused to herself.

" Gregory! " she shouted, slapping her palms down on his desk. Whether it was the volume of her voice, her use of his given name, or the slam of her hands, something broke through his reverie. He blinked slowly, languidly, at Beatrice for a moment, his eyes clearing. He looked at her, apparently confused as to where she had come from.

"How did—" he began, but how he intended to finish the question, Beatrice would never know.

"No," Beatrice snapped, cutting him off. "For someone who seems to care a great deal about manners and the way in which your daughters conduct themselves, you surely put forward a pitiful display."

The colonel, having recovered some of his alertness, stared openly at Beatrice. His face creased, and he inhaled sharply. "How dare you?" he demanded. Beatrice's eyes widened, and she slid around to the front of his desk so that she could stare directly at him.

"How dare you ?" Beatrice countered, jabbing a finger at him. "Those girls worked hard on making things presentable for you , to meet your exacting standards!"

" My standards?" the colonel repeated, half-rising from his chair. "Do not pretend that the whole thing wasn't a mummer's performance, with you putting words into their mouths." He planted his fists on top of his desk and leaned forward.

"I am only trying to teach them conversation, something that they are sorely in need of!" Beatrice snapped back, also leaning forward on her hands. "It had not occurred to me that you might also be in need of tutelage regarding proper conversation."

"I think I can do very well without any guidance from your lips, thank you kindly," the colonel said.

"Are you certain? Because so far, the only uncivilised behaviour I've seen in this house has been from you !" Beatrice retorted.

The colonel did not respond immediately, his eyes flicking down to Beatrice's mouth. It was only then that she realised that they were both leaning quite far forward, their faces only inches apart. They were both breathing hard from anger, panting as if they had been running. Beatrice was keenly aware of her own heartbeat, loud in her ears. The colonel's gaze dropped to her mouth again, and Beatrice thought, irrationally, that perhaps he meant to kiss her. She waited, half-expecting it, half-dreading it, half-longing for it, fully aware that was too many halves and not caring a jot.

At last, the colonel pulled back, straightening slowly and carefully, tearing his eyes from her. Beatrice, too, straightened, and folded her arms defensively over herself. The colonel turned away, moving away from the desk; though his back was facing her, Beatrice could see some tension leaking from him. There was a stretched silence, in which the only sound was the steady ticking of the clock on the mantle.

"I apologise for my outburst just now," Colonel Hillmot said finally, stiff and formal. "It was ungentlemanly of me."

Another silence; the colonel half-turned his head a little, as if listening for something. Beatrice blinked at him, nonplussed.

"If you are awaiting my apology, I must tell you that you will be sorely disappointed on that score," she said plainly. The colonel turned more fully back to her, disbelief writ large on his face. Beatrice, completely unphased, simply stared back at him, unyielding.

"I do not know why I am surprised by that," he said dryly, turning back about. "I should have expected nothing less."

"You shouldn't have, because I was not wrong," Beatrice replied confidently. Feeling a little daring, she allowed herself to half-lean on his desk with her hip, taking the weight off one foot. "Besides, I believe in the catharsis of saying these things out loud from time to time. If one does not make time for an outburst now and again, it is sure to happen at an inopportune moment."

"And I suppose you feel that I ought to express myself more, then," Colonel Hillmot said, folding his hands behind his back.

"Perhaps," Beatrice said with a little shrug. "At least, to your daughters."

The colonel was silent for a moment, and Beatrice wondered if he had even heard her. When he spoke at last, it was stiff and halting, as if he cared not to reveal his apprehension.

"I do not know how to do that. Not anymore," he added. His hands were closed tightly about each other behind his back. "Not since...not since Emily."

Something in his tone and posture struck a sympathetic chord within Beatrice. "Perhaps you might start simply, then," she suggested, her voice softer. "Mayhap you simply speak to them about their interests."

The colonel's entire person managed to stiffen further, belying his discomfort. Beatrice simply watched, waiting, as he fought some sort of internal struggle. When at last he turned around, his face was drawn, and his eyes creased with sadness.

"I have come to the uncomfortable realisation that I...I do not know my own daughters," he admitted lowly. His pained expression and defeated tone pulled unexpectedly at Beatrice's finer feelings.

Calling upon all of her stage training, she allowed her mouth to stretch into a small, wry smile. "Well, lucky for you, there is a rather simple solution to that predicament."

"Which is?"

"Simply speak to them," Beatrice said, standing from the desk. "And I do mean speak to them, not at them. You may be surprised by what you learn from and about them." She paused, passing a look over the library shelves. "For instance, did you know that Eliza wrote your invitation? No, I do not mean that she picked the words, I mean she quite literally penned it."

"Did she really?" Colonel Hillmot asked, taking a step forward back toward the desk and chair again. "The lettering was so fine that I thought you must have been responsible for it."

Beatrice barked out a laugh, then seemed to remember herself. "Gracious, no," she said, still grinning. "My writing is atrocious; you'd be better served to have me carry secret missives to your troops for how illegible it is."

The colonel stared at Beatrice, and she could practically see him trying to figure out if she was having a jape or speaking in earnest. "Eliza has always been a precise girl," he said at last.

"Oh yes," Beatrice agreed. "Frankly, I think you would be well-served to put her in charge of your household accounts. I am completely serious," she said, catching sight of his expression. "She has real ability, and you would be a fool not to put it to use."

"I imagine you fancy you have the perfect solution to my relationship with Florence, too," he said, unable to completely keep the bite of sarcasm from his words.

Beatrice turned back to the colonel, frowning a little. "In the spirit of fairness, I think that is not so simple a task. You might let her take on some small responsibilities around the house—why not put her in charge of the menus?"

"What?" the colonel demanded, disbelieving.

"Only for a week," Beatrice said placatingly, putting her hands up. "See if she doesn't surprise you. It will help her feel like more than a child, and will be a real skill for her to learn."

"And Sophia?" he asked.

"She is a dear, sweet creature," Beatrice said gently. "She only wants to be near you."

The colonel inclined his head, then nodded once and turned back around. He had not said as much, but it was clear that Beatrice was dismissed. Though his back was still turned, Beatrice bobbed a curtsy before quietly withdrawing.

After softly closing the door to the library, Beatrice stood for a moment in the hallway, attempting to gather herself. One hand pressed to her stomach, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs as much as she could. It wasn't that she had stood up to the colonel—she'd never had an issue with making her opinions known—but more the reason why she had done so.

Beatrice wasn't by nature given to nurturing or feelings of tenderness, yet these Hillmot girls had roused in her intense stirrings of sentimentality. She wasn't sure what it was about their plight that touched her so, to the point that it galvanised her to act in their defence with such vigour.

Contemplative, she slowly made her way back to the sitting room. When she entered, the girls all had their heads together, speaking quietly; upon seeing Beatrice, they sat up and moved apart. Beatrice paused, assessing.

"Please join us again, Miss Heart," Sophia said, her round cheeks lifting in a smile.

"Are you certain?" Beatrice asked. "You all seem to be having a jolly time, and I should not like to intrude."

"Yes," Florence said, speaking directly and clearly, "please, come and sit with us."

Beatrice obliged, resuming her seat. The girls resumed conversation, which flowed for as long as the tea did. Something undefinable had shifted in Beatrice's absence—there was a kind of ease and openness that had not been there before. The girls spoke without reservation to Beatrice, daring even to joke and show off their wit with her. It was as if they had decided, in those few minutes that Beatrice had been gone, that they would fully accept her into their midst.

It was a society which Beatrice was surprisingly glad to be admitted to.