26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

I t was a bit silly to be nervous before a simple country ball, but there was no denying the butterflies in Beatrice's stomach. She blamed the fact that she had not been out in society for some months now, isolated up in the North as she was.

At least, this is what she told herself, as it was easier to digest than the truth: She was terrified of being recognised. There had been occasions, too many for her comfort, over the past few weeks that had put her name into others' mouths. First, it had been the gossip in Heatherton, then the reverend turning his eye on her, and then the inquisitive maids that had come to chaperone Florence's tea. It was enough to make Beatrice uneasy, like her veil of anonymity was slipping.

It will be a masque , she repeated to herself, over and over. No one shall see your face; no one will know you. When it is over, you might slip quietly back into your tiny sphere of safety.

Though Florence had been partly in jest, Beatrice did have some concern as to what she might possibly wear. She had considered if she might simply wear one of her better dresses, dubious that it would be an occasion of great sartorial significance. She parsed through her trunk and little closet, pulling out one dress after another.

"What of this one?" she asked Florence, who was stationed on Beatrice's bed. Beatrice held up a polished cotton dress in a colour that was neither grey nor purple, but some hideous bruise-like colour betwixt the two. It was finely cut, with pleats and gathering, but no other frills.

Florence pulled a face, wrinkling her nose. "Oh honestly, no," she said. "That is a fright."

"It's the best one I have," Beatrice objected.

"What would you possibly go as in that thing?" Florence demanded. "A bump on the head?"

Beatrice stared at Florence for a moment, fairly certain that she should chastise her for impertinence, but unable to disagree with her. "Florence," she sighed, unable to fully stop herself from laughing.

"Come now, you surely cannot wish to be seen in public in something so...so mundane ," Florence cajoled, leaning forward on her hands a little. "You're far too fashionable to go out to an event in something so...unlike you."

Beatrice gave Florence a pointed look. " I taught you that trick," she said dryly. "Flattery will only get you so far with me."

"Am I wrong?" Florence demanded.

"I can't imagine that the taste of the demimonde will be so demanding in York," Beatrice retorted.

"Oh no," Florence said, coming over all serious. "You must dress to impress: Lady Constable is known for her taste and love of finery. Their annual masque is when the county is on parade."

Beatrice sighed again and conceded the point. "I suppose I could order something, but..." She trailed off, considering her meagre wages. True enough that she had been able to put most of them aside, but a dress, especially a quality one, was a massive expense. Her eyes flicked to her trunk, where hidden in the lining, there was a cache of the jewels she had carried from London with her.

She was loath to part with them, as they were her only assurance against future poverty. To take them out and look at them now seemed tawdry, distasteful, somehow; they were largely gifts from would-be suitors and gentlemen companions, out of place in this home of simple honesty. Still, she could possibly sell one or two in York, though that would only raise more questions about herself.

Though it was likely only paranoia, it seemed unwise for Beatrice to have one of her old gowns sent up to her by post. The chances of it being recognised were remote, but it still seemed a risk that she should not take.

"I will think on it," she said at last to Florence, who seemed mollified with this answer.

In truth, she did not have a solution, and one did not immediately present itself in the two days since her conversation with Florence. She was at the point of giving in and going to York to just order something and have done with it, when a knock came at the outer door to her room that led to the hallway.

Frowning, Beatrice hesitated a moment before answering the door. It was odd for someone to be knocking on that door, as there simply was not much call for someone to seek her out and speak to her. She did not exactly socialise with the servants, and if it were one of the girls, they would simply knock on their own adjoining door.

Cautiously, she opened the door the width of her foot, and was surprised to see the colonel standing there. For him to come to her room was unusual, bordering on untoward. She blinked up at him for a moment.

"Colonel Hillmot?" she asked, unnecessarily. "What is it? Is something the matter?"

"Yes," the colonel said, which made Beatrice's eyebrows shoot up. "I mean, no," he said, his hands behind his back. "That is, I believe something is wrong, but I have a solution," he clarified.

"Well, I am all ears now," Beatrice said. Carefully, she angled herself into the open space of the door, sliding into the hallway and closing the door firmly behind herself.

"I understand from Florence that you have been having some...ah, some difficulties about what to wear to the masque," the colonel continued, having taken a polite step backward.

"Oh, that," Beatrice said, exhaling through her mouth. "I'll just run into York when there's a quiet moment and see if I can't find something passable."

"Only passable?" the colonel asked, quirking a brow at her. "I shouldn't think you were the sort of woman that would wish to appear at such an occasion and be only 'passable.'"

Beatrice folded her arms over herself, tilting her chin up, unsure if she should be insulted or flattered. "And what precisely does that mean?"

"You know exactly what it means," the colonel replied, his own eyes narrowing.

"No, I don't, and I should like you to explain it," Beatrice argued.

"It means—look here, you infuriating specimen, I am attempting to do something kind," the colonel snapped, whipping a large parcel out from behind his back.

Beatrice shook her head, the incongruous tone and words putting her in a bit of a spin. The colonel, taking advantage of her momentary confusion, pressed the box into her hands. Dumbly, she took it, looking down at it. It was not wrapped, nor even tied up with string, but was heavy, far heavier than she had expected.

"For me?" Beatrice breathed, unable to quite believe it.

"Here," the colonel said, supporting the box's weight with his hands flat beneath it. "Open it," he instructed.

Beatrice obeyed for once, lifting the lid off. She gasped when she saw what was within. In great folds, packed securely within the box, was the dark red silk velvet that she had spied at the fabric draper's. It was so dark that it looked nearly black in the dim light of the hall. Beatrice reached in to caress it lovingly, her hands just ghosting along the plush surface.

"Oh," she said, barely audible, "aren't you beautiful ." She did not bother trying to hide the frank appreciation in her voice, unable to take her eyes from it.

"I am glad you are pleased," the colonel responded. She glanced up at him and saw a look of smug triumph, as if nothing could have delighted him more than her own delight.

"Why did you do this?" Beatrice asked, keeping her voice low. "You shouldn't have, what if—what if people find out about this? The other servants will talk," she said, her eyes darting about as if waiting for one of them to spring out of hiding.

"Can you honestly say that you are concerned for their opinions?" the colonel asked, arching a brow.

Beatrice conceded that point but was still uneasy. "I still don't understand why you would do this. It must have cost more than a few pennies."

"My reason is simple," the colonel said, his eyes on Beatrice's face. "You needed a gown for the ball, which my daughter has deemed it necessary for you to attend, and you did not have one. I could provide a remedy to this difficulty."

With one hand still on the fabric, Beatrice shot a look up at the colonel, trying to read his face. He spoke in pragmatic platitudes, but something was amiss. "Then why did you not simply procure something more practical? There surely had to be scads of other fabrics more appropriate to my station."

The colonel stared down at Beatrice for a moment, his face impassive. There was only the smallest little tic of muscle at his jaw that betrayed inner tension, and Beatrice's eyes immediately seized on that small motion. She did not speak but allowed her eyes to do the accusing for her.

"Oh, very well," he relented at last with a small roll of his eyes. "If you must know, it was because you stared at it so covetously, I was worried that if I did not purchase it, you would burgle the store and steal it for yourself. Besides, as it was out of season, it was a bargain."

Beatrice gave him a sideways glance full of doubt, but not ill-humoured. Though he spoke teasingly—much in the manner she might have done to him, in fact, something which made a strange thrill of excitement run right through her—she suspected that there was a tiny kernel of truth in his words.

"Well, in that case, I thank you for saving me from my future life of crime," she responded lightly, matching his tone.

The colonel inclined his head, then nodded, letting the box slip from his hands into hers gently. Though it was fleeting, Beatrice thought that she could see a flicker of disappointment flit across his face, there and gone in an instant. It could just as easily have been a trick of the light. She blinked, wondering if she had misread the situation.

He couldn't have been hoping for a different reaction...could he? she wondered.

He turned sharply on his heel, a gesture so familiar by now that Beatrice felt certain that she would know it in a crowd of thousands. Impulsively, Beatrice reached out with the box and bumped the colonel on the elbow, stopping him.

"Thank you," she said softly, her face gentle and earnest. "I...I do not know how to repay you, or even to express my gratitude. Thank you," she said again, without a trace of irony or sarcasm.

The colonel accepted this, merely inclining his head again, but there was an expression of satisfaction on his face as he did so. He dipped his head to Beatrice, turning about once again, and retreated back down the hallway, leaving Beatrice standing there, holding a box of fabric worth more than some farmers would make in half a year.

Beatrice stared after him for a long while, her fingers clutching the box tightly. She did not know what to make of this sudden generosity, and it left a riot of feelings within her. Slowly, she pulled herself away, nudging her way into her room and gently placing the box on the bed.

She stared down at it, trying to sort out the strange sensations within her. It wasn't that she hadn't received extravagant gifts before; she had, too many to really remember. It was that she had not received one so...so sincerely given before. Men had given her pretty baubles, shiny rocks that she could wear and make herself even more of an ornament on their arm, but never had one given her something that she needed before.

More than that, she did not have to instruct the colonel about what it was that she wanted: He had observed her, remembered her tastes and desires, and then acted on them of his own impulse. He had no ulterior motive (Beatrice suspected the very idea would be insulting to him), giving her something simply because he wished to make her happy, not because he hoped for something in return.

Though she knew in her heart that this gift would not come with strings, Beatrice could not help but assign weight to it. It was so personal , not simply because the colonel surely went to York on his own instead of sending a servant, but also because it would be something that she wore. It was not the sort of fabric one gave to a governess, and that made her uneasy in spite of her pleasure at such consideration.

Florence, having entered at some point while Beatrice was staring, transfixed, down at the box of fabric, came to peer around her shoulder. Beatrice heard her gasp and was inclined to agree.

"Oh, that is beautiful !" she breathed, and Beatrice nodded in agreement.

"It almost seems a shame to cut it up, doesn't it?" she said softly.

"It will make the most remarkable gown," Florence said, daring to reach out and touch one fold. "I mean to say, you could cut that into a potato sack and it would look stunning. Still, one hopes to do it justice." Florence looked up and gave Beatrice an inscrutable expression. "I must say, it is not what I expected from Father."

"You knew about this?" Beatrice asked, her eyes widening as she stared at Florence.

"Well," Florence hedged, shrugging coyly. "I let him know that you were having some difficulties about appropriate attire for the ball, and that he might be able to help." She nodded down towards the vermilion velvet again. "I did not expect anything like this, though." Florence gave her another of those unreadable looks.

"You and me both," Beatrice murmured. She did not know if she referred to the fabric, the simple act of receiving a gift, or the colonel himself at this point.

The masque had taken on a new weight that Beatrice had not anticipated. It was clear that it was not only Florence and the other girls who had gotten too involved with Beatrice. She blamed herself for not understanding what it was to maintain a professional distance between a master and a servant. It was not that she regretted her actions, but more that she understood herself better now than she had when she first arrived at the Hillmot manor.

Beatrice had always assumed herself to be a cold, unsentimental specimen of womanhood. She had always seemed to be lacking a certain maternal instinct, a penchant for warmth that seemed to come so naturally to others. Her time in this house, however, had forced her to confront an undeniable truth about herself: She did not keep herself apart from others because she was without a heart; no, it was because she felt too much . The reality was that she was far, far too feeling to be able to keep the proper distance from her charges, not now, not ever. She was not meant for the life of a governess.

The realisation hit her like a ton of bricks falling from a great height. Beatrice sat heavily on her bed, her head swimming from the enormity of it all.

I cannot stay, not for their good, and certainly not for mine , she thought. I cannot stay and harbour some secret tendre for a man who will never be able to respond in kind. Beatrice did not doubt that he would form feelings for her, likely had done so already, but it was not an affair that could have a happy ending. A man of the colonel's standing would not, could not marry a governess, any more than he could marry a dancing girl. To stay would be only to invite further gossip upon his house, to prevent him from finding a more appropriate happiness.

"Miss Heart, are you unwell?" Florence asked, hovering solicitously and peering down into her face.

Beatrice could not answer, her throat suddenly closed over with sentiment. She smiled briefly, falsely, at Florence, and nodded her head, attempting to reassure her. Florence, looking thoroughly unconvinced, withdrew reluctantly, watching Beatrice the whole time.

I must depart after the masque , Beatrice decided, resolute.

Whatever dress she wore, whatever else happened, there was no doubt in her mind that the masque would be a turning point from which there would be no return.