16 Letters

Bertram seethed quietly over Grayling's behaviour. He could not be sure whether his annoyance was jealousy at the fellow's monopoly of Bea, or whether it was masculine disapproval of such a vainglorious display. Or perhaps it was pure envy, he thought gloomily. Bertram had not the skills to manage anything more than the smallest jumps. A fallen tree trunk was just about within his capabilities, but he would never attempt a solid hedge, even one recently trimmed, as this one had been. Yet Grayling had sailed over it and, even Bertram could admit, he cut a fine figure. He had the sort of muscular body that was precisely designed for such an exercise — powerful and masculine. As unlike Bertram's slender form as it was possible to be.

And now Grayling was riding beside Bea again, smiling at her and leaning nearer to say something that made her laugh. How did he do that? It was flirtation, Bertram supposed, as he closed the gate after the last riders and followed them across the field, but he himself had never had the way of it, that light tone that amused and beguiled and… something else. Some hint of admiration that ladies responded to like flowers unfurling their petals in the sun. Even so straightforward a girl as Bea Franklyn could not help responding to Grayling's charm.

For the rest of the ride, Bertram followed the two of them, returning to Landerby Manor in a very disgruntled frame of mind, but quite unable to think of any way of distracting Bea away from the enticing charms of the baron.

The mail had arrived during the afternoon, and as the company gathered around the table in the entrance hall where the letters were laid out, the butler approached Bertram.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but this came today. I thought it might be best for you to give it to him yourself."

He handed over a letter addressed to ‘John Whyte, groom to Mr B Atherton'.

"A letter for Whyte? Oh, Lord. It must be bad news from home, I imagine."

"That is what I suspected, sir."

"Thank you, Graves. I will take care of it."

He went straight back to the stables, where Whyte was still rubbing down Catullus.

"There is a letter for you, Whyte."

"For me? Who'd write to me? I don't recognise the writing… oh, I do, it's Mr Dewar's, the parson. It must be from my grandda. He can write well enough for his own needs, but not a letter. Dear Lord, what does he want, I wonder?" He turned the letter over and over in his hands, frowning at it.

"You will not know until you open it."

"Aye, true enough." Even then, he hesitated for a long moment before tearing at the wafer and unfolding the paper. "Oh. Well. That's… odd. Captain Edgerton wants to see me… that fella who's looking into poor Mr Nicholson's death. You read it, sir, for I'm sure I don't know what it's about."

Bertram took the letter from him.

‘John, Mr Dewar is so kind as to write this for me else it would not make a word of sense for my hands shake too much to write. That man from the castle has been here wanting to talk to you about your family connections, the one who is looking into the chaplain's death. He knows a great deal and suspects a lot more and I could barely speak civilly to the man. Mr Dewar will not let me write down what I would like to do to that man. Captain Edgerton, that is his name, although what he is a captain of, I'm sure I don't know. I sent him away with a flea in his ear, you may be sure. I hope you're well and giving satisfaction and taking good care of Mr Bertram's fine horse. Your loving grandpa, Joe Whyte.'

"Family connections?" Bertram said, puzzled, then remembered that Whyte was the illegitimate child of Joe Whyte's daughter. "Oh… Nicholson?"

Whyte nodded. "Aye, he's me da, seemingly, though not a bit of notice have I ever had from him. That's why Grandda's so upset about it. These things happen, but a man should take care of his children. So Grandda says."

"And what do you say?" Bertram said.

"That I never wanted nor needed him, sir. I grew up in the smithy with me cousins, learnt me letters at me mam's knee, like them, learnt about horses from me grandda and me uncles, got meself a fine job at Westwick Heights, sir, and I don't want to do nothing to muck that up. What good would a gentleman like Mr Nicholson ever have done me?"

Bertram smiled wryly. "He could have given you a proper education, like a gentleman."

"Which would have fitted me for nothing at all," Whyte said hotly. "Me ma's a smith's daughter, sir, and that's me proper place in the world, working for a living and not swaggering round like a lord, expecting the world to fall at me feet. No offence, sir."

"None taken. But this is nothing to worry about. Captain Edgerton seems to be a very thorough man who wants to find out every little detail of Mr Nicholson's life. He has heard of your connection and wants to talk to you about it, that is all."

"He won't arrest me nor nothing, will he?"

"No, no. You need only tell him what you have told me, Whyte. He is a reasonable man, and will not suspect you of anything. Besides, you were at Westwick on the night Nicholson was murdered, were you not?"

"Aye, and never knew nothing of it til late in the morning when Mr Halliwell's boy came by with the meat for the kitchen and told us."

"Then you may tell the captain that, and he will go away and leave you in peace."

Whyte nodded, but he still looked troubled. "You'll speak for me, sir, won't you? Tell him I've done nothing wrong."

"Of course I will, but you will have to speak for yourself, too. Nothing will happen just yet, I am sure. I doubt the captain will come all the way out here. It is a two day journey, after all, and he must have more important matters to deal with. I will send word to him when we return to Westwick, so you may put it out of your head until then."

***

Bea retired to bed that evening with very confused feelings. Lord Grayling's attentions were very pleasing, boosting her spirits wonderfully. He had ridden by her side for the whole of the afternoon, apart from those times when he dashed off to display his superior skills on horseback. She could see Bertram looking daggers at him, for Bertram was the type of rider who cautiously crept through the gates even in the hunt, and was usually far behind with the old men and the few ladies who took to the field. She liked Bertram, of course, and he was a true friend to her, and she would always cherish the memory of that wonderful kiss, but there was no doubt that Lord Grayling was a great deal more dashing.

As if the ride had not been encouraging enough, for once he had not played cards with his own friends after dinner, but had drawn her aside to play backgammon with him. Bertram and his friends turned round to glare at them whenever there was a burst of laughter from their table, which happened often, for Lord Grayling was a most amusing man and he seemed to find Bea's little jests funny, too. Really, they got along remarkably well.

Mama had thought so too, for she had smiled and nodded encouragingly whenever Bea caught her eye, and when they retired to bed, she followed Bea to her room to gloat over the baron.

"Upon reflection, Beatrice, I do not think you could do better than Lord Grayling," she said, pacing back and forth in the tiny room, making Bea feel quite crowded. "Bertram is all very well, and a much better title, but when will he have it, that is the question? At least with Walter you would have been a viscountess while you waited for him to inherit, but with Bertram you could be Mrs Bertram Atherton for thirty years or more, and who wants to be Mrs anything? There are few other possibilities here. I cannot see the marquess coming up to scratch, and Lord Thomas Medhurst is only a younger son, with no money or estate of his own. You would be bringing everything to the marriage, and that is no good. Lord Brockscombe… he is possible, I suppose, but is he serious? It is very difficult to tell. So Lord Grayling will do very well, if he makes an offer. Only a baron, but that is better than nothing… a great deal better than nothing."

Bea could not tell her mother that she had already found Lord Brockscombe and Lord Thomas wanting, nor that Bertram was not an option at all. But since Lord Grayling was now the only possibility, it was only proper to have her mother's approval.

"So you do not mind if I encourage him a little?" she said cautiously.

"Encourage him all you like. You are very good at that, after all. Yes, it would be most agreeable to have you settled before the autumn sets in, and this time you should not stand for a long engagement. Get him to the altar as soon as may be. It will be for the best, you may be sure."

Bea knew how to interpret that — even her stepmother was tiring of Bea's endless dallying, and wanted her married off and out of the way. She wanted it herself, but she felt instinctively that Lord Grayling was not a man to be pushed into anything. Her simple strategy with Walter of asking if he were ever going to propose would not work with a man like Lord Grayling. Nor could she leave matters to develop in their own time. He was an accomplished flirt, and who knew how many women he had toyed with over the years, yet he was unmarried still.

It was a conundrum. If only she had not been persuaded by Bertram into this agreement. She would have worn down his resistance in the end, she was sure, and then she would have had a husband whose kisses warmed her in some inexplicable but quite delightful way.

But perhaps Lord Grayling's kisses would warm her, too? And with that thought, she climbed into bed and, buoyed by optimism, fell asleep.

She woke fretfully in the dark. Even though she had left her bed curtains open, no light filtered through the shuttered windows yet. Turning over, her eyes resolutely closed, she waited for sleep to return, but her mind was no longer amenable to the idea. Lord Grayling had been pushed aside and in his place, she saw Bertram's smiling face, and felt his lips burning into hers. Not the proper kiss, which had quite understandably set her on fire, but that affectionate little peck — brisk and not romantic in the slightest, but she would have traded almost anything at that moment for another one… or two. Or as many as she could get. If only his friends could kiss so bewitchingly—

She sat bolt upright. Mr Fielding! As soon as she thought of Bertram's friends, her mind's eye summoned the image of them and there was Mr Fielding, laughing and joking with the others, smiling fondly at her… and then, unbearably, as she had seen him last, miserable and immobile in the garden. Her spurned suitor, whom she had made no effort to listen to with civility. ‘Why would I want to marry you?' So she had said — such cruel words! And he had not joined them on the ride, he had not even appeared for dinner.

He had taken her by surprise, that was the trouble, and then she had blurted out all manner of infelicitous things. If only she could curb her instinct to say the first thing that came into her head! If only she were more ladylike, more like Mama…

Poor Mr Fielding! What had happened to him since their last encounter? Was he quite well? Or worse, had he decided he could not face her at all, and quit Landerby altogether? But no, she would certainly have heard if he had left. What could she do? She would not be easy about him until she had seen him again, and heard that merry laugh of his. Most of all, she wanted to know that he had forgiven her.

A letter! That was it… she would write to him. That way, she could choose her words carefully and not burst out with one of her honest but not very polite remarks. And although it was not entirely proper to write to an unattached man, surely she could be permitted to write a note apologising for her dreadful behaviour?

Scrambling down from the high bed and hastily lighting a candle, she crossed to the window where a small table was laden with writing equipment. Sitting down, she pulled paper, ink and quill towards her and began to write. As soon as she began, the pen broke. When she had mended it and begun again, she discovered the ink was lumpy. With a sigh, she retrieved her own travelling writing box from a drawer, and began again.

‘Mr Fielding, I am consumed with guilt for the discourteous way in which I responded to your very generous sentiments yesterday. It was unpardonably rude of me, and I would like to express my sincere regret. I do not expect to be forgiven, but I know your kind and open-hearted nature will permit me to say now all that I should more properly have said to you at the time. Firstly, may I thank you with all my heart for the compliment you paid me in wishing me to be your wife. I am deeply sensible of the honour you do me, and could only wish that my answer might today be different. But it cannot. I am very, very sorry, but I cannot marry you, not because of any defect in you or your character, for you are all that a man ought to be, and more, and your circumstances are respectable, and despite my adverse comments regarding your parsonage, upon reflection I believe it was quite wrong to dismiss it so forcefully. I am sure it is a very pleasant parsonage, and one may always hire an assembly room if one is in need of a ballroom. Nevertheless, I cannot marry you because—'

Here she stopped and laid down her pen. Why could she not marry Mr Fielding? She needed to give some explanation for her refusal, and not a frivolous or selfish reason, like the lack of a title or his snug parsonage, but an honest and respectable reason. What had her stepmother told her to say? That she was much obliged but she did not think they would suit.

But in many ways, Mr Fielding would suit her perfectly. He was respectable, he had his living and parsonage, and enough money to defend himself from the charge of fortune hunting. And she liked him very well, if she were to be completely honest. He was, until her careless rejection of him, always cheerful, he admired her and they even had a mutual interest in Latin. He would not forbid her from learning the language!

Yet she knew beyond question that she could not marry him. He was like Lord Brockscombe and Lord Thomas — he sparked no flames within her, and that settled the matter beyond question. She took up her pen again.

‘I cannot marry you because I do not feel for you that deep regard that a woman should feel for a man who is to be her husband, nor do I believe I could ever come to feel such a regard. I shall always consider you as my very good friend, and I hope you would see me in the same light, but we can never be more to each other. I am very sorry. With every good wish for your future, and the hope that you will in time find a woman worthy of you, yours in friendship, Beatrice Franklyn.'

She folded it and sealed it with a wafer, then tucked it safely in a drawer. As soon as she dared, she summoned Harper to dress her. Then, when the lady's maid had withdrawn, sniffing at such an early start, Bea retrieved the letter, crept from her room and through the dusty passageways, still in the gloom of early dawn, until she reached the room where Bertram and his friends slept. Outside was a bench where their valets would wait at certain times to be summoned, since there were no bells connected to the kitchens two floors below.

Here she sat and waited patiently, amusing herself by listening to the distant snores, until one of the valets — it was Bayley, Bertram's man — appeared bearing a ewer of steaming water.

"Good morning, Bayley. I have a commission for you, if you would be so good. Will you see that Mr Fielding gets this letter?"

"Of course, madam. Is it urgent? Do you want me to wake him specially?"

"No, not urgent. It is only an apology. But if you have to go off and do other things, you can leave it with Mr Atherton."

"Very well, madam."

He was too well-trained to do more than raise his eyebrows very slightly, for a lady writing to a gentleman was not at all proper unless an engagement was in effect, but Bea hoped she had forestalled him by talking of an apology. That could be taken as nothing but the polite response to an invitation, perhaps, and would attract no opprobrium, and it was true, as far as it went.

He bowed, and Bea walked away, feeling that she had assuaged the worst of her own guilt and, she hoped, made Mr Fielding feel a little better, too.

Then she went to the old schoolroom, which had become her retreat in times of worry, where she could consider her options and decide what to do next. For now she knew what she wanted in a husband, above even a noble title — she wanted a man who sparked flames inside her, and in her entire life, only one man had ever done so, and that was Bertram Atherton.

But there was still Lord Grayling, who drew her to him in a multitude of ways. And he was exciting, as Bertram was not, for there was an edge to him that challenged her, as if he were saying, ‘I am dangerous… do you dare tangle with me?'

Dangerous… an odd word to attach to a gentleman and a baron, no less. Certainly there was risk in pursuing him, for if, as Bertram said, Lord Grayling is not looking for a wife, then she would have wasted her time at Landerby and would have to begin again. On the other hand, the triumph if she could manage to attach him, if so accomplished a flirt could be caught by Miss Beatrice Franklyn, the daughter of an attorney. That would be something!

But dangerous? She frowned. What danger could she possibly be in, except to her heart? Not even that, for perhaps Bertram was right, and she did not have a heart at all. What a lowering thought.