14 Thoughts Of Marriage
Bertram was utterly disgusted when he saw Medhurst whisk Bea out of the Great Hall. Now he was going to kiss her, too! And when he returned with a smug expression on his face, Bertram could hardly contain his ire. Bea was smiling, too, although she was not hanging on Medhurst's arm, which was something. Had she chosen? Perhaps she had chosen, and it was to be Brockscombe.
Bea returned to her mother's side, while Medhurst ambled across the room to where Bertram stood with his friends.
"What a pleasant evening this is," Medhurst said, still grinning.
Fielding glowered at him. "You too!" he hissed. "Traitor!"
"We agreed," Medhurst said. "No one is obliged to stand aside. You are just jealous."
"Of course I am! I wish you would all stop kissing the lady I hope to marry."
Medhurst tutted at him. "Can I help it if she is a good-natured and affectionate little creature, who bestows her favours widely?"
"You take advantage of her — you both do," Fielding muttered. "You should not kiss a girl unless you intend to marry her."
A rumble of masculine laughter from nearby caused them all to turn, where they saw Lord Grayling's handsome countenance wreathed in smiles.
"Good Lord, Fielding, the world would be a very dull place if we were all bound by such conventions," he drawled. "I thank heavens I am not, or I should have a hundred wives, at least."
"That is nothing to boast about," Fielding said hotly. "I should be ashamed to admit to such behaviour."
"I doubt you have anything to admit to," Grayling said, still amused. "How very virtuous you are. Unlike myself, or your friends, seemingly. Or the amusing Miss Franklyn, who bestows her favours so widely. I wonder if she would bestow them in my direction?"
"Now that is not fair, Grayling, when you have not the least intention of marrying her," Fielding said in outraged tones.
"Marrying her? Oh no, I do not intend that."
Still smirking, he wandered away, leaving Bertram smouldering with suppressed rage.
"Does he mean what I think he means?" Fielding said, his face ashen. "He would not… would he?"
But several of the ladies came near just then to solicit support for a riding expedition the next day, and nothing further could be said. It was not until the four friends retired to their room at the end of the evening that Fielding finally exploded.
"If that scoundrel harms so much as a single hair of Miss Franklyn's head, I shall… I shall… well, I shall not be responsible for my actions. If he thinks that just because she has a warm heart, she is fair game—! I am almost minded to call the fellow out. The abominable arrogance of the man! I have always disliked him, and now—!"
"He is only trying to provoke you," Brockscombe said, passing around the brandy glasses. "It amuses him, no doubt, to say such things and see your outrage, but he would not disrespect Miss Franklyn, you may be sure of that."
"I am not sure of it — not in the slightest bit sure," Fielding said. "He has such a dreadful reputation, and there is always a mistress or two in his keeping, you know that."
"He is a libertine, it is true, but he does not seduce the daughters of gentlemen," Brockscombe said soothingly. "Opera dancers and the like, that is where he finds his ladybirds."
Bertram listened to them in silence, having nothing to contribute to the discussion. Spending little time in town, he knew Grayling only from Cambridge and the Latin meetings. Although the baron was noted as a rake, Bertram neither knew nor cared about the details. So long as he left Bea alone, that was all that mattered.
He was encouraged by Brockscombe's reassurances. Besides, Bea was at Landerby with her father and stepmother so she was hardly unprotected, and in another ten days or so, she would be safely back in the North Riding and far away from the charms of Lord Grayling.
"Miss Franklyn knows not to look towards Grayling," he said. "I have warned her that he is not the marrying type, and she is too shrewd to entangle herself there."
"She is female, so entangling herself with the wrong sort of man is just the sort of thing she would do," Fielding muttered.
"A fine opinion you have of the lady you want to marry," Bertram said indignantly. "She is cleverer than you give her credit for."
"Why, because she has learnt a few Latin phrases? That is merely book learning, and anyone may do as much, even a woman, but there is not a female alive who has an ounce of sense where the male sex is concerned. A female needs to be guided, to ensure her footsteps remain on the correct path."
Bertram burst out laughing. "I wish you good fortune with that idea where Miss Franklyn is concerned. She is a lady who knows her own mind, and pursues her own objectives with the utmost resolution, and if you think that any man, even you, is able to stop her, you are entirely wrong, I assure you. Indeed, I should very much like to see you try it, and watch how ill you manage the business."
"What is the matter with you, Atherton?" Fielding cried. "Anyone would think you want the girl for yourself, given the excessively high opinion you have of her. She is a darling, but she is as weak and foolish as any other female. Look at the way she throws herself at Brockscombe and Medhurst, with not a thought for me, who truly cares for her. She sees the titles and is dazzled, as all females are. You have only to see how they sniff around Embleton, poor fellow — and you, now they think you might be an earl one day. They ignore you for weeks, but at the slightest hint of a rumour that you are in line for a title, there they are, gazing worshipfully at you and hanging on your every word."
"Miss Franklyn has forty thousand pounds, my friend," Bertram said uncomfortably, for that was close to home. "Why should she not aim for a title, if that would please her?"
"Because a title is no guarantee of good character, that is why," Fielding said. "Look at Grayling, if you doubt it. And mark my words, Miss Franklyn is not as sensible as you imagine. She has been flirting with Grayling since she arrived, and who can blame her? Not I! He is every woman's dream, is he not? Handsome, charming, rich and a baron — how can a mere clergyman, without good looks or address or fortune, compete with that? How can any of us? We are all deficient in one way or another, while he has everything a woman could desire in a man. Atherton, you get along better with her than any of us — if you want to save her from Grayling's clutches, maybe you should offer for her yourself."
"I have no wish to marry her," Bertram said in a low voice. Was that true? He was too confused to say.
"Then perhaps you should stop berating those of us who do. Ack, what is the use? She will never look at me. I am going to bed. Try not to snore so much tonight, Brockscombe."
***
Bertram's sleep was troubled that night. He woke several times with Bea's face in his mind, and then lay fretfully awake. At first, he occupied himself with envisaging her happily married to one or other of his friends, but in every case the result displeased him. Brockscombe was a frivolous coxcomb, Medhurst would be distracted by every passing pretty face and as for Fielding, surely Bea deserved a better fate than to be a clergyman's wife.
Then there was Lord Grayling… and that was another matter. It was all very well for Bertram to say confidently that Bea was too sensible to be taken in by the smooth words of a snake, but she certainly seemed to enjoy his company. It was worrying.
What was the matter with him? Anyone would think you want the girl for yourself, given the excessively high opinion you have of her. So Fielding had said, but was he right? What would it be like to marry Bea? At once an image filled his mind of the two of them at the breakfast table, speaking in fluent Latin, just as he had talked about to Medhurst. What fun that would be! And yet… married? Was he ready to surrender his freedom?
He rose as soon as there was enough light to see by, dressed in clothes old and unfashionable enough to be donned without his valet's aid, and went down to the stables. John Whyte, his groom, was already up and sweeping. Was there never any end to the need to sweep out the stable yard?
"Morning, sir," Whyte called out cheerfully. "Saddle Catullus for you, shall I?"
"Thank you, yes, and I shall want him again this afternoon. The ladies are getting up an expedition, seemingly."
"So I heard, sir. Such a sight it will be to see all the fine ladies riding out! Tis a pity your sisters ride so seldom, sir, if you don't mind my saying so. A lady never looks so pretty as aback a horse after a good ride. Proper puts colour in their cheeks, it does."
Bertram laughed and agreed to it, though he had never noticed it.
He did not ride far, not wanting to overtax Catullus with two long outings on one day, and although the exercise was good for his body, it did nothing to soothe his troubled mind. Still, the hour was now sufficiently advanced that he could summon Bayley to dress him for the day, and then make his way to the old schoolroom.
These visits had become a secret delight to him. He had begun the very day after that devastating kiss, horribly torn about it, but bound by his promise to help Bea to learn Latin, or so he told himself. He was not sure how he could face her… or whether she would even want to see him. Surely it would be dreadfully embarrassing for both of them? But he had the happy idea of arming himself with a written list of some common Latin phrases, and although Bea coloured up and would not look him in the eye just at first, the list had given them something to talk about. Within a very few minutes, they were again on the easiest of terms, and no one to see them together would guess that she had reduced him to a quivering wreck just the day before.
Each morning before breakfast, therefore, they met in the schoolroom, and studied the Latin primer. Bertram read passages from the book for Bea to repeat, and then to translate, and sometimes he dictated while she wrote it down, the scratching of chalk on the slate taking him straight back to his childhood. Today she was there before him, already hard at work.
"How are you progressing with those declensions?"
She pulled a face. "Will you help me with this passage? It is by Caesar, and I am finding it difficult. It reads, ‘Caesar, exposito exercitu et loco castris idoneo capto…'. What is ‘idoneo'?"
"Suitable."
"Ah. A suitable position for the camp. But this part, ‘ubi ex captivis cognovit…'. The sentence seems too convoluted."
"It is a little awkward to the English ear. So, ‘Caesar, having landed the army and captured… found, perhaps, a suitable position for camp, when he learned from prisoners…'"
"Why does he write about himself that way… he did, he learned? Why not I did, I learned?"
Bertram smiled. "Julius Caesar was a genius. He could write however he liked."
"I suppose in a way it reads better," she said thoughtfully, her head tipped to one side like a bird. "It makes it less personal, more of a historical record. Now, this line here…"
Bertram sat beside her, as they both bent over the book. The print was quite small, so it was necessary to lean close to her to read it. Her arm rested barely an inch from his, a curl of her hair tickled his ear and he could see her chest rise and fall as she breathed. For himself, it was hard to breathe at all. He was painfully aware of her closeness, the whiteness of her finger resting on the page, her voice soft in his ear, the rustle of her gown as she moved. Her scent — something he could not identify — wreathed itself around him. So hard to think…
"Bertram? Are you quite well?"
"Um…"
"Valesne?"
That forced a little burst of laughter from him. "Ita… ita… valeo. Ignosce mihi."
"Admit it, you were wool gathering," she said, laughing up at him, eyes twinkling. "This must be so dull for you, this basic work and my beginner mistakes. I expect you are planning for your talk to your friends. When is it to be?"
"Oh… let me see… tomorrow, I think. Yes, tomorrow."
"Cras."
"Ita. Cras. Hodie… loquor pro Embleton."
"Oh. Today Lord Embleton speaks? No… pro, so you speak for Lord Embleton? He has written a paper, but it would be difficult for him to read, so you read it for him, is that the way of it?"
"It is, except that he writes poetry, not research papers."
"Original poetry? His own composition?"
Bertram nodded. "It is excellent stuff. If you like Horace, you should come along and listen. I know you lurk in the gallery sometimes, but you could sit with everyone else if you wish to."
Her face lit up. "May I? Your friends would not mind?"
"Mind having an attractive young lady in their midst? Of course not! But I shall not be able to translate for you, since I shall be reading the poems, and all the discussion will be in Latin."
"Oh, I just like to listen. If I need any translation, I am sure Lord Brockscombe or Lord Thomas would be happy to help."
No! She is mine!
Bertram was shocked by his visceral response to Bea's artless comment. Now he would be forced to stand at the front of the room while she was surrounded by his ever-helpful friends, and no doubt Fielding would be hovering around her too. Yet was that not precisely what he had wanted? Was it not the very reason he had invited her to Landerby Manor, so that she could attract the attention of suitors? So why did the thought of it distress him so much?
Fielding's words echoed in his head. ‘What is the matter with you? Anyone would think you want the girl for yourself.'
What was the matter with him? How foolish to be jealous of them! But he had brought her here and thrown her in their way, and now he could hardly blame them if they began to appreciate all her good qualities. Nor could he blame her if she were to choose one of them…
Yet the more he thought about it, the more he realised it was true — he wanted her for himself.
He licked his lips nervously, but he had to know. The uncertainty burned within him like fire. "Have you… reached a decision yet? About Brockscombe and Medhurst?"
She pulled a face. "I cannot say that I have, although I managed to extract a kiss from each of them. Their kisses were… not satisfactory."
Bertram laughed, his spirits soaring at her words.
"But I still have another possibility," she said calmly.
"Fielding?" he said tentatively.
"No, silly! He is no lord, nor likely to be, although he is very charming, and looks at me so adoringly. If he were even a baronet, I should be tempted."
"Then you must mean Grayling," Bertram said, alarmed. "Bea, you must not. He is… he seems pleasant enough, but he is not in the market for a wife, I assure you. He has said as much."
"Oh, I know he is not on your list, but he is a lord and he seems to like me, so perhaps he will be tempted, who knows? He has until the end of next week to declare himself, if so, and if he does not… well, I shall not break my heart over him, you may be sure."
"Do you have a heart to break, Bea?" he said teasingly, and for some reason, she coloured up a vivid red.
"It must be time for breakfast," she muttered.
A little surprised, Bertram followed her down the stairs, but her response threw him into a fury of wondering. She might not break her heart over Grayling, but her fiery blushes suggested that she might break it over someone else. But who could she mean? Brockscombe and Medhurst offered her unsatisfactory kisses, and Fielding had no title. Was there someone else? Perhaps she was now regretting her precipitate jilting of Walter. He was a handsome fellow, his cousin, with a careless charm that ladies seemed drawn to. It would be easy to throw him over on a whim, and then discover later that she had been more attached to him than she had supposed.
But Walter still had no title, and could never have one, and that would never do for Bea. Her heart, breakable or otherwise, was still firmly set on marrying into the nobility.
And what of Bertram himself? Even if he were to decide that he would like to marry Bea after all, he could not be sure he would inherit the earldom. His uncle was young enough to marry again and sire a whole brood of sons. No, he could not in all honesty pursue Bea, even if he wanted to marry her.
He pulled himself up sharply. Of course he did not want to marry! A wife would distract him from his work, would be constantly interrupting him in the library to ask if he would prefer goose or mutton for dinner or to complain about the scullery maid. There would be children crying at all hours, and no peace to be found for a man of scholarly bent.
But he had a sudden vision of children running across the lawn at Westwick, chasing each other, laughing. Girls perhaps, with black curls spilling down their backs, vivid blue eyes and a forthright way of explaining precisely why they had to have another doll or gown or pony, and not taking no for an answer.
The image made him laugh out loud. Of course he wanted to marry, and have a string of children just like their mama.
Bea turned on the half-landing, her foot still on the last step. "Bertram, whatever has got into you these days? Is the moon full just now? Are you going mad?"
And she laughed up at him, her blue eyes and dancing curls so bewitchingly like the child in his mind that he laughed again, but he could not speak a word, only smile at her. Such enchanting eyes, and those tempting lips… if only he could taste them again…
"Will you ride with me this afternoon?" she went on, one hand resting on his lapel. "I should like you to explain about questions again. Would you mind?"
He shook his head, and laughed a little more. "Bea Franklyn, you are the most astonishing girl I have ever met." Then he leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips. "I hope one day you find a man worthy of you."