25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

W hatever her misgivings, Beatrice was as good as her word. With a renewed determination, she threw herself into the girls' lessons, not least the dancing. She might not be a traditionally educated governess by any means, but she couldn't do anything less than her best for her charges. She flatly refused to send them into the world unprepared.

This new vigour drew the colonel's eye, but Beatrice put that far from her mind. Like a cat, she had viewed him merely as a plaything, something to entertain herself with in the long, boring hours in a remote country house. She might bat him around from time to time between her paws, but he, too, was a distraction, and she was resolute in her conviction to focus on the girls.

Beatrice also found it necessary to withdraw from the girls, at least in some measure. It was not something that she truly wished to do, but it seemed to her the kindest thing in the long run; she would not wish for them to be bereft and morose when the day came for her to leave them. She wished for them to be able to wish her well. And for all parties involved to hold their heads up high and know without a shadow of a doubt that the young ladies were as best prepared as they could be.

She was not unkind— never could she be unkind to them—but she did not invite the same warmth and care that she had in weeks gone by. It was the hardest thing she had ever endured in her life, harder than a childhood of hunger and deprivation, harder than being driven from her home by unkind gossip. Try as she might, she could not forget the haunted look that Florence had given her as she had departed from Beatrice's room that night with the fashion plates. Eliza and Sophia had joined in as well, watching Beatrice with guarded, solemn eyes. They all seemed united in this, engaging in hushed, whispered conversations whenever Beatrice was out of the room.

Still, Beatrice did not renege on her promise to prepare Florence for the ball. The other girls were encouraged to engage in various studies as Beatrice drilled Florence relentlessly on dancing, etiquette, and comportment. Of course, there were sometimes where they wished to be part of the goings-on, which Beatrice allowed when it was appropriate.

Such was the case on a sunny afternoon, the air full of all the promises of spring. Beatrice had organised them in the back garden, a maze of overgrown rosebushes and wisteria that hung from arched trellises. It was a space that was far too romantic and whimsical to be to the colonel's tastes, and Beatrice strongly suspected that it had been overseen by the late Mrs Hillmot.

"Now, the trick is to balance the book upon your head, like so," Beatrice instructed the girls, who all stood in a quiet lane, listening attentively. With a flourish of her arm, Beatrice placed a book on her head, holding her chin parallel to the ground so that it did not waver at all. "Now, let's see if you can do it," she said, twirling her other hand at them to indicate they were permitted to move about.

They placed books on their heads, with them immediately sliding hither and thither off their scalps. "This is an exercise in folly," Eliza complained, her forehead creased with frustration. Beatrice felt sympathy for her, as her great intellectual prowess did not extend to the physical.

"Think of it this way," Beatrice said, helping Eliza settle the book back upon her head. "What causes the book to tumble?"

Eliza thought for a moment. "I suppose that my head must be at an angle in one direction or another. Therefore, I must stabilise the tilt of my head accordingly."

"Just so," Beatrice agreed. "Now," she said, addressing all of the girls, "go and see if you can complete a full circuit of the garden. Be off with you," she said, gently shooing them away.

Beatrice remained at the top of the garden, watching with folded arms as the girls made their way slowly around the path. It was necessary for them to navigate stairs on occasion, as well as the winding nature of the garden path, which proved a great challenge. To their credit, they did not complain further; indeed, they approached the challenge with a kind of serious determination that Beatrice could not help but admire.

It was a clear day, and Beatrice valued the time in the sun. As no one was around, she tipped her head back, allowing the rays to fall on her face. Unconsciously, she stretched her arms out as well, letting the sun warm them too through the grey linen of her sleeves.

"I see that you are enjoying the fine weather, Miss Heart," the colonel said suddenly from behind Beatrice.

She started a little, half-turning and pulling her arms back in to herself. The colonel was watching her closely, and he took a testing step forward. Beatrice, without even thinking, took an automatic step backward. The colonel lifted his chin, acknowledging this assertion of her space.

"Good afternoon, Colonel," she responded stiffly.

"Miss Heart," the colonel replied in kind, dipping his head a little. "I see that you have the girls hard at work as well," he said, nodding in the direction of the gardens. "It seems that you have rather been putting them through their paces lately."

Beatrice said nothing, merely inclining her head. She refused to be drawn into banter with the colonel again, no matter how much she longed for it. For his part, the colonel merely continued to watch Beatrice, waiting to see if she would volley back at him.

"Do not mistake me, I approve," he continued at last, slowly tearing his eyes away from Beatrice and back out to the gardens. "It's nice to see a general putting their regiment through a rigorous regimen."

Beatrice, knowing full well that he was attempting to bait her, kept her arms folded about herself, her hands clasping her elbows. "I am glad that you approve of their lessons, Sir," she answered mildly.

Now the colonel turned to face Beatrice more fully again, stepping a little closer. Beatrice did not move this time, refusing to give him the satisfaction. His dark eyes swept over her boldly, and Beatrice could feel her innate urge to become prickly and defensive rearing its head.

"Something is different," he announced, the sharp eyes of a soldier and marksman on her face. He lowered his voice, tilting his head a little. " You are different."

Defiant, Beatrice could not resist tossing her head. "And if I am?"

To someone that had no experience with the colonel, to someone that had not spent an inordinate amount of time studying the subtle intricacies of his moods, it would have been impossible to discern any sort of change. The scar that ran lengthwise from eyebrow to cheek on the left helped to further obscure his feelings. Beatrice, however, caught a change in his expression, a sort of softening around the eyes, but a tightening of his jaw.

"You are making a mistake," he said at last, causing Beatrice to tilt her head in confusion and widen her eyes simultaneously.

"Only the one?" she couldn't resist replying saucily, and then immediately snapped her teeth closed tightly against further playfulness.

The left side of the colonel's face drew up in a half-grin, incongruous with the scar. "That is more like it," he murmured. "In the spirit of fairness, I would like to—that is, I think it is prudent to tell you that I was wrong," he continued, a little stiff and awkward, like a young man taking to the dance floor for the first time. He turned away from her, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes watching his daughters as they glided about the garden in fits and starts.

Beatrice, intrigued despite herself, angled herself so that she was facing him. She tilted her chin down a little, raising one eyebrow in a silent question. The colonel glanced in her direction and caught her expression.

"What? I am not above admitting when I have been incorrect," he objected. Beatrice only tipped her head down further, looking up at him dubiously from beneath her lashes. "Well," he amended, "I should like to think I am not an unfair tyrant, at the least." He paused, as if waiting for Beatrice to confirm him in that assertion. When she did not, he cleared his throat and nodded out towards his daughters. "The point that I am attempting to make is that I can see you withdrawing from them. I know that I have...taken exception to your methods in the past, but... I believe that you were right to take such tender care of their feelings. They are not the same girls they were just a few months ago."

Beatrice could feel herself swelling with pride, and sentiment as well. She did not doubt that she was right to be proud, though it was not simply of herself: it was because the girls had, as the colonel said, gone through something of a metamorphosis. They were not the wild, rambunctious urchins that she had first met; importantly, nor were they meek and docile, servile little things. They were persons entirely unto themselves.

The colonel, evidently seeing this swelling of pride, nodded at Beatrice. "Yes, you are to be congratulated," he repeated, "but this does not negate the fact that you are now making a blunder so colossal that I wonder you can stand to make it."

Taken aback, Beatrice shifted her weight away from the colonel, staring at him incredulously. It was not that he dared to speak to her in such a manner—she had no doubt that he had a tongue like a razor when the mood took him—but that he would say so with such conviction and emphasis.

"I beg your pardon?" was all the response that she could muster, her eyes narrowing and going hard.

"It is not my pardon that you will have to be begging," the colonel replied. He nodded out towards the garden again, where the girls were winding their way through the path. "I suspect it is theirs. You were right to give them so much..." He paused, his jaw working as if fighting against what he wished to say. "Affection," he concluded at last. "You were right to treat them as kindly, as warmly, as you did; I freely own that now. But this does not negate that withdrawing as you have is cruel to them now."

Beatrice winced, for she knew that the colonel spoke the truth. "It is not my intention to be cruel to them, most especially not to them," Beatrice said, her voice low. "But the truth is that I must be hard, perhaps even unkind now, to prevent more tears later. It was wrong of me to become so attached to them. It was...unprofessional."

"What? What do you mean, 'more tears later'?" the colonel demanded, pressing nearer to Beatrice. With sharp eyes, he regarded her closely, the lines in his face deep.

"I shan't be here forever, Sir," Beatrice replied, her eyes stinging a little. "It is better that they learn to be independent of me now, than to have them be overwrought when it is time for me to move on."

"Move on? Move on to where?" the colonel asked, a wrinkle of consternation plainly cleaved between his brows.

"That's just it, Sir," Beatrice said, giving a soft shrug of her shoulders. "I do not know; I'm a governess, little more than a servant. It's my lot to go from home to home until the children have outgrown me." She punctuated her words with a delicate, misty smile, but the reality was that she was holding herself tightly together—her hands clutched so tightly to her elbows she had little doubt that her knuckles were white.

"But surely you will be here at least until Sophia is of age," the colonel argued, though there was a note of pleading in his voice.

Beatrice laughed softly. "That one will not need me for long, either, not with two sisters grown up. She is lucky: she will have many hands to help guide her into the world. I will stay as long as I am needed, but the older I grow, the harder it will be to find a place."

The colonel stared openly, blankly, at Beatrice in such a way that she had never seen on him before. There was an unguarded quality to his face that she had never seen before. It made her nervous, as if he were seeing her, all of her, in a way that he had not before.

"You cannot mean to remain a governess forever," he said at last, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. "You cannot—you shouldn't." He stepped closer to her again, looming, being so bold as to take her arms in his hands. "Stay, go, whatever you choose, I refuse to believe that this is the life that you wish to live."

Beatrice barked out a harsh laugh, unable to fully repress her true self. "You assume that I have the choice," she said, regret in her voice.

"Then tell me why you cannot go back," the colonel said, pulling her closer, so that their faces were mere inches apart. "Tell me, and I will find a way to correct it." Beatrice, too overwrought to speak, merely shook her head, defiant and proud, but throat closing over with tears. "Then at the least tell me who you are," he demanded, his eyes piercing into hers.

Beatrice said nothing, but tilted her head in such a way as to indicate that he had said something obvious. The colonel, taut and unyielding, continued to stare down at her, making her heart pound. She swallowed reflexively, and the colonel watched the motion of her neck, and for a moment Beatrice truly thought that he meant to press his lips against the little swathe of skin above her chemisette. She did not resist, perhaps even stretching her neck ever so slightly as she watched him, his dark eyes dilated a little, breathing hard and--

"Dash it all!"

Like a scalding, red-hot iron, Beatrice leapt away from the colonel suddenly. The sudden absence left her feeling cold and bereft. Some distant part of her mind, the rational part that knew that she still had a job to do, that she ought to reprimand whichever girl had uttered such an uncouth outburst—Florence, from the sound of it—but for the life of her, Beatrice could not get her voice to work for a moment.

Blinking out into the garden as if she had been in a dark room, Beatrice forced her eyes to focus, to take in the scene before her. Florence was attempting to steady the book on her head as she went up the last two stairs, but was having great difficulty. Her arms were spread wide, and her legs were unsteady as she attempted to navigate the steps.

Beatrice, having seen many new dancers take tumbles of all sorts, knew what was going to happen before it happened. With a kind of premonition, she knew that Florence was going to falter, and was already moving forward to try to catch her before she was aware that she was moving.

She did not get to Florence in time, the girl slipping and landing awkwardly on her side, her legs splayed and her hand catching painfully on the stone stair. The book slapped down on the stair beside her, adding insult to injury. She let out a small distressed sound that cut right to the centre of Beatrice.

"Just stay still," Beatrice said, sweeping down to kneel beside Florence without a care for her dress. "Don't move," she instructed, running her hands over Florence in a cursory examination. "Catch your breath—that's it, nice and deep. Now, does anything hurt? Are your ankles well?"

Slowly, Florence shook her head, then lifted her hand, wincing a little. "My hand hurts," she said, her nostrils flaring a little. Beatrice gingerly took her hand in hers, running her thumb over the palm, which was lightly scraped. She looked up at Florence, and could clearly see the little girl that she had once been, scraped knees and braids flying behind her as she ran all over the estate.

"It doesn't seem bad," Beatrice soothed, withdrawing a fine linen handkerchief from her pocket and gently swiping the dirt and gravel away. "We'll get it washed, and then I have just the ointment for it—I always keep some with me, to help with chafing shoes. You'll be right as rain in short order."

Florence nodded, her face downcast. "I don't think I shall ever be ready for this ball," she muttered, her voice cracking a little. "I was a fool to think I would be able to do this."

Beatrice, her heart squeezing in sympathy, looked up a little helplessly at the colonel, who hovered just behind her. "It's just nerves," he offered.

Beatrice nodded. "You'll be fine," she said. "More than fine: I've no doubt you'll have a grand time."

Florence glanced up at Beatrice, smiling weakly, briefly. "You always make me feel like I could do anything," she said. "I wish that you were going with us." Her face brightened suddenly. "Why don't you?" she asked, seizing onto the idea enthusiastically, as well as Beatrice's arm. "Come with me, help me be brave," she pleaded.

Taken aback, Beatrice pulled away a little. "I couldn't, Florence," she said, trying to let her down gently. "It wouldn't be appropriate."

"Why not?" Florence demanded, sitting up more fully and staring at Beatrice. "No one would know who you are, and it's a masque—no one would see your face. You could be a lady's companion, or...or even a friend!" Florence continued, her words coming faster as the idea formed.

"I—no, I could not," Beatrice protested, feeling her resolve weaken. She looked up to the colonel for help against this assault of logic and sense.

The colonel stared back down at Beatrice for a moment. "You should come," he said finally. "It would be...you should come," he repeated, his face unreadable.

"What—what?" Beatrice asked, not sure that she could be hearing correctly.

The colonel at last tore his eyes away from Beatrice, nodding to Florence. "It would set her at ease, and I should be grateful of the help in keeping an eye on her. I suspect that it will take the two of us to mind her, at any rate."

"Oh Father, really," Florence huffed, recovering some of her temerity. "Now, the real question is, what shall you wear?" Florence asked Beatrice with relish.