12 A Latin Primer

One afternoon, the Latin meeting ended at an earlier time than usual. Bertram's friends planned a ride despite damp weather, but Bertram was not minded for exercise. He had received a letter from his mother with interesting news, which he was sure that Bea would want to know. He made his way to the saloon, but there was no sign of her or her stepmother. Mr Franklyn was there, however, deep in a game of chess with the duke. He looked up at Bertram with a knowing smile.

"Looking for Bea, Atherton?"

"I was, in fact. She is usually here at this time of day."

Franklyn's smile widened. "I have not seen her since breakfast, but I do know that she planned to stay indoors today. She is not a great one for getting wet."

"Ah. I shall look for her, then."

He started in the few formal rooms where guests congregated in the afternoons, but without success. His next thought was the Long Gallery, in case she was taking her exercise there. When he found it empty, he checked the little gallery above the chapel. She was not there, either, so he made his way to the bedrooms assigned to the Franklyns. He was not quite sure which room was hers, for three rooms bore the label ‘Franklyn', but by knocking and calling at each in turn, he found a surprised maid, who confirmed that Bea was not there, but also that she had not taken any of her outdoor clothing.

She was definitely in the house, then. That narrowed the possibilities. Now it was a tedious matter of working his way through each wing in turn, calling out ‘Miss Franklyn?' at regular intervals. He was on the third floor of the west wing, the windows grimy from years of accumulated dirt, when a head appeared from a door.

"What is it? Am I wanted? Oh, Bertram, it is you! What is the matter? Is Mama looking for me? Or Papa?"

"No, nothing of that nature. I wondered where you had hidden yourself, that is all. What are you doing up here?"

She grinned at him. "It is the old schoolroom. Come and see."

It was so dusty that he could clearly see footprints on the floor. Great cobwebs hung from the ceiling and across the windows, and a hobby horse was so caked in dust that it looked black. But in the centre of the room was a table and chair which had been thoroughly cleaned, and here a book lay open, with a slate and a box of chalks beside it.

"You are working on your copybook, I see," he said. "What a good schoolroom miss you are. Your governess would be proud of— Oh!" He picked up the book in astonishment, turning it over to read the spine. ‘A Schoolboy's First Latin Primer', read the inscription in faded gold letters. "You are learning Latin?"

"There is no need to sound quite so astonished," she said. "We females do have brains, too, you know."

"Of course, but… Latin?" He picked up the slate and laughed as he read from it. "‘Ubi sunt nautae.'"

"Oh, is that how it is pronounced? ‘Ubi sunt nautae. Nautae in taberna sunt. In tabernis non puellae sunt.' Did I get that right?"

"Ita vero."

"That means yes, does it? Ita vero. Ita vero. What would no be?"

"Non ita. Do you truly plan to learn Latin, Bea?"

"Why not? It is by far more exciting than embroidery. I have been listening to all of you chattering away in Latin for more than a week now, and some of it is lovely. Whatever it was you read out at Mr Fielding's talk last week — that was so beautiful and melodic and poetic."

"Horace, the third book, Ode number nine. ‘Donec gratus eram tibi nec quisquam potior bracchia candidae cervici iuvenis dabat, Persarum vigui rege beatior.'"

"Ohhh," she breathed. "Yes! That was it. What does it mean?"

"Let me see… I might translate it thus. ‘As long as I was agreeable to you, and no one more favoured put his arms around your white neck, I was happier than the Persian monarch.'"

"Oh. He is writing to a lady, then? It is quite pretty, although it sounds better in Latin," she said disappointedly. "You must teach me the words… although I dare say I can find the book. Horace, third book, Ode number nine. I can teach myself to recite it by rote, but I should so like to understand it. I thought if I learn the language, then next year I shall be able to listen to all your talks and understand what is said."

"Bea, I started learning Latin when I was six, I think, and intensively by the age of eight. It took me ten years, perhaps, to reach this level of fluency."

"Ten years… then I shall be fluent by the time I am one and thirty." He laughed out loud at her insouciance. "Oh, you think I cannot do it? Let me tell you, Bertram Atherton, that I always succeed at whatever I set my mind to, no matter how long it takes. I succeeded with Walter, did I not?"

"But you have not, and will not, succeed with me."

"Only because you have given me an acceptable alternative," she said smugly. "Lord Thomas Medhurst, Viscount Brockscombe or the Marquess of Embleton. Although… I am not getting on very well."

"No?" he said teasingly. "I should have said you were making excellent progress."

"But I cannot tell whether they would suit me or not," she burst out. "How can I possibly know? They are all perfectly agreeable and gentlemanlike, but I cannot tell what their characters are. I sit beside them at dinner, I play cards with them, we talk about… well, nothing at all. How may I know which of them would be faithful or not? Which might prove to be extravagant or frugal or downright penny-pinching? Or which might explode with jealousy if I so much as look at another man? With Walter, I had known him long enough to understand him. You, too, are no mystery to me. But your friends… it is an impossible task. I have a month, Bertram… a single month in which to decide the whole course of my future life, and I have no idea how to do it."

He was silent, quite unable to answer her satisfactorily. Having never looked for a wife himself, he had never had to make such calls of judgement, and had no idea how it might be done.

"The duchess said—" she went on, stopping abruptly with a quick laugh. "I dare say it is all nonsense, but it is how she chose her own husband."

"Did she go out at dawn and throw a silver sixpence down the well?" Bertram said teasingly. "Or make a wish while stirring the plum pudding? Or was it a Romany prophecy?"

She tutted at him. "No, silly! She kissed them, that was how she decided. And when she kissed the duke, she just knew… and so did he. Do you think if I kissed the three men on my list—"

"Bea, that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," Bertram said. "As if you could simply kiss a man — several men! — without consequences. If you were caught, you would be obliged to marry, whether you wanted to or not."

"I should not be caught. It is not like—" She looked embarrassed. "It is not like that evening at Highwood when we went out onto the terrace… do you remember?"

"When my mother rushed out after us with a shawl for you?"

"Yes! And I was very glad of it, I assure you, for Mama had devised this cunning scheme… I was to take you out into the garden and get you to kiss me… well, it hardly mattered whether you did or not, for Mama planned to find us out there and make a fuss so that you would be obliged to offer for me, being a man of honour and so on. But I found I could not do it, in the end. I was so relieved when your mama rescued me. It was a dreadful thing to do, and I should never have countenanced the idea, not for a moment, but Mama… well, she is quite immovable sometimes, and there is no help for it but to go along with whatever devious plot she has dreamt up."

"You are not much of a plotter, are you?" he said, with an unexpected rush of affection for this odd girl, so different from anyone else he knew. "Your nature is too straightforward, too honest."

"I hope so," she said, sounding dubious. "I told Walter exactly what I was about, and the same with you. But your friends… I do not know them well enough to say, ‘Delighted to meet you and by the way, I plan to marry one of you.' That would take more brazenness than even I can summon."

He chuckled. "There is no need for brazenness. They are looking to marry already, and they are well aware of your attractions, I assure you."

"My forty thousand pounds, you mean," she said gloomily. "Do you know, Bertram, I would trade the whole of it any day for even half of Miss Grayling's beauty. Those blonde curls, and great big blue eyes — would it not be glorious to be so lovely?"

Impulsively, he took her hand, raising it to his lips and kissing it, and because in that moment he sincerely felt for her, he kissed it properly, not the almost kiss that politeness decreed. "Bea, even if you were the greatest antidote in the kingdom, and you are very far from that, believe me, you should know by now that beauty is not everything. Being open and kind and warm-hearted — these are far more important, and you are all of those."

"You are very good to say such things, but it is not true. If I were better looking, I should have had men falling over themselves to wed me, including lords. I should have been married long since, with my great house and a carriage with a crest on it. Or if I could flirt, perhaps, like Miss Hutchison — that thing she does with her eyes, looking up through her lashes. It must be very beguiling to a man, because so many of them cluster around her. No one clusters around me, except your friends and that is only to oblige you. I am destined to end up an old maid, like Winnie Strong."

"Stuff and nonsense, Bea. You are very well looking, and never let anyone suggest otherwise, and as for flirting, sensible men detest a flirt. You are certainly not likely to end up an old maid, like— Oh, that reminds me," Bertram said excitedly. "Mother wrote to me, and Lady Strong told her that Winnie has a suitor — a serious one, seemingly. Someone she met down in London. She was attacked by pickpockets and this man rescued her and was instantly smitten, and now they are in daily expectation of a proposal."

"Winnie Strong? But she must be twenty-five if she is a day."

"She is four and twenty, Bea, and her aunt was well into her middle years when she married, if you remember."

"Oh, yes, almost forty! And Mama was twenty-six when she set her cap at Papa, and I do not want to be still unwed at that age, Bertram. It would be utter failure. Forty thousand pounds, and I still cannot find a nobleman willing to marry me. It is humiliating, and I must not allow it to continue. You have given me this opportunity, for which I am exceedingly grateful, and I am set on making the most of it. Three men… two, I suppose, for the marquess is not an option — a future duke is bound to look amongst his fellow peers for a wife. So two possibilities, but how to choose? And I only have two more weeks. I must force the issue, I think. I shall kiss each one in turn, and that will tell me which of them I should marry."

"You cannot be serious," he said. "Think of what your stepmother would say."

"She would be all in favour of it. She wanted me to kiss you, if you recall."

"Bea, I strongly advise against it," Bertram said in alarm.

"Because we might be discovered? Pooh, I shall take good care not to be."

"No, because…"

He stopped, wondering just how much to elaborate. Bea was certainly very forward in her behaviour, but she was still a total innocent and he did not wish to spoil that innocence by warning her of rakes. There were one or two, the charming Lord Grayling amongst them, who might take advantage of Bea's naivety. They were dangerous. But his own friends… none of them would do so. She could safely kiss Medhurst or Brockscombe with no fear that they would misunderstand, or try to take things further.

"Just be careful," he ended lamely. "Make sure you are not discovered."

"Of course," she said happily.

"But where will you start? Medhurst or Brockscombe?"

"Yes, it is difficult, is it not? And I have never been kissed before, so I have no point of comparison. I think I should kiss some neutral party first, just to see what a kiss without any expectations might be like."

Bertram laughed. "And where will you find such a person?" Then he understood the expression on her face, and his stomach turned over in the most alarming fashion. "Oh, no, no, no, Bea! You must not look at me like that."

Slowly he backed away from her, but just as implacably she pursued him, laughing. Step by step he retreated, hands raised in defence. Step by step she followed, until he was backed up against the wall and could retreat no further. Then, still chuckling, she placed her hands on his shoulders.

"It is only a kiss, Bertram. What are you so afraid of?"

His resistance crumbled. She was right — what was there to fear? It was only a kiss, only Bea, only an old friend asking a modest favour. Where was the harm?

Slowly his hands dropped and he allowed her to move nearer, to press herself against him. His head inched towards hers. There was a moment's awkwardness as they worked out how to arrange their noses, and then… then…

The warmth! Surprise that Bea threw herself into kissing with the same enthusiasm as everything else in life. Astonishment that it was not at all how he had imagined it.

That was his last rational thought before his brain melted into nothingness. But he could still feel…

He felt the weight of her body leaning against his. He felt a wisp of her hair tickling his nose. He felt the softness of her muslin gown as his hands crept round her waist, the fabric bunching under his fingers. He felt her chest rising and falling, heard his own blood drumming in his ears, his heart racing, a strange noise at the back of throat.

He was drowning, lost in a thousand unfamiliar sensations, and yet he wanted more of them. He wanted — needed — to hold her this way, to kiss her, to taste her sweetness, to hold her against him for ever. He adored her with a passion so intense he could not understand why he did not burst into flames.

Abruptly, she pulled away. "Can't… breathe…" she whispered.

He was crushing her against him, he realised, squeezing the breath out of her. "Sorry… so sorry…"

At once he released her, but for a moment she stood immobile, staring up at him. She took a breath, odd and uneven, then another, her eyes a deep, mysterious blue. Then, without a word, she turned and fled.

Bertram's legs would not hold him up a moment longer. He slid down the wall to land with a plop on the floor, oblivious of the dirt coating it. What on earth had happened?

For a long time he sat, quite incapable of a single coherent thought, living again through that all-consuming kiss, while the fires within him slowly became less intense, and the churning emotions subsided into something more recognisable… more manageable. A state where he began to feel as if he were slowly coming back to earth.

But not coming to himself… or at least, not himself as he had been. He would never be that Bertram again. This was a new, altered Bertram, one who knew passion and exultation and joy in the company of a woman. His life was divided by that kiss — the time before, grey and dreary, and the time after, alive and colourful and vibrant.

As his logical mind finally emerged, shaking, from the storm, only one question arose — how was he ever to exist from now on without more of those kisses… and of Bea?