19 Prospects

Bertram followed Bea and Lord Grayling seething with rage. Even now, Grayling was flirting with her, and she, silly girl, was drinking it all in. Perhaps she was already halfway to being in love with him, and who could blame her? He was everything that a girl could want in a man — except steady of character, of course. Grayling was a hardened libertine who had no intention of marrying her. She had to be protected from him, and if her parents would not do it, then Bertram and his friends must step into the breach.

How fortunate that Fielding had been watching Bea, and saw her disappear with Grayling. He had summoned Bertram to his aid, and Bertram had snatched at the only excuse he could think of. His mother's ploy had worked once before, and happily it had worked again. Bea was safe for the moment, but how to keep her safe in the future? How was she to be kept away from Grayling? He shied away from the prospect of explaining his true nature to her. For one thing, she would not believe him, and he hated to destroy her innocence. An unmarried woman should be pure and trusting, and he could not bear to tell her of the wickedness of the world.

But she had to be protected somehow, so as soon as he returned to the saloon, Bertram sought out Lady Esther.

"I wonder if I might have a word with you, ma'am — privately?"

She was too well-bred to show any sign of surprise, merely inclining her head in acquiescence and leading him out of the saloon into an ante-chamber. It was one of the unused rooms, so their feet threw up clouds of dust, and the flames on the candelabrum he carried flickered in the draught from a broken window pane.

"We are quite private here, Mr Atherton. What is it you wish to say to me?"

"Were you aware that Miss Franklyn was out in the garden with Lord Grayling just a few minutes ago?"

"And what of it?"

Such a response threw Bertram entirely off his stride. "You knew? But… it was dark… they were very secluded."

She laughed easily. "Mr Atherton, the young must have time alone to discover whether they are suited or not. A man may be brought to the point of a proposal the more readily by a closer degree of intimacy than is afforded by a crowded saloon."

"A proposal! I do not think he has a proposal of marriage in mind, Lady Esther. I have heard him say so, just a few days ago."

"So say all men, until it happens. Believe me, Mr Atherton, your concern for Beatrice does you the greatest credit, and even though I cannot approve of your encouragement of her inclination for book learning, I am deeply grateful to you for obtaining this invitation for us. It is such an excellent opportunity for Beatrice, and there is Lord Grayling, so attentive and such an eligible match. A baron, and with a good income! Most eligible. If he has an eye for her, then I shall not be the one to throw a rub in his way, of that you may be sure, and I shall thank you not to interfere. You take a great interest in her affairs. I cannot help thinking that, despite your protestations to the contrary, you want her for yourself."

Bertram could not in honesty deny it. But even if it were true that he wanted to marry Bea, and at that moment he wanted it very much, if only to save her from Grayling's clutches, he could not be sure that he would ever be able to provide Bea with the noble title she wanted and deserved.

If only he could convince her that Grayling was a libertine who had no intention of marrying Bea… but there was no hope of that. Lady Esther had set her mind too firmly on the prospect of marriage. She saw only a man of charm and great address, well-mannered and unfailingly courteous. With the title and all that went with it, nothing could make her believe him unworthy of Bea's affections.

So he bowed and said no more. Lady Esther smiled and swept majestically from the room.

When he returned to the saloon, the first sight to greet his eyes was Bea and Grayling sitting side by side on a sofa, closer than propriety dictated, their heads together in intimate conversation. Bertram almost groaned aloud in despair. Something must be done, and at once! There was not a moment to lose, for tomorrow he might find a way to get her alone. But what could he do? He had no right to interfere directly. Only one man could do that…

Mr Franklyn was in a gaggle of other men talking heatedly of the political situation. Bertram went to him at once, managed to extricate him and drew him agitatedly into the same ante-chamber he had used when speaking to Lady Esther.

"I beg your pardon for drawing you from your discussion, but something must be done to protect Bea. What he proposes… it is unthinkable! She must be got away from him at once! Lady Esther will do nothing. You must rescue Bea before she is irrevocably entangled with him."

Franklyn raised a delicate eyebrow. "We are speaking of Grayling?"

"Yes, yes, of course Grayling! He is trying to ensnare her… she was out in the garden with him just a few minutes ago, but Fielding and I got her back inside before he could do anything to her. I have talked to Lady Esther but she sees nothing wrong in him… she does not understand… thinks him a pattern card of upright behaviour, no doubt."

"He is a baron, and that will weigh with her," Franklyn said. "It does not weigh with me, however. What do you know of him?"

His calm tone soothed the worst of Bertram's agitation. "He is a libertine, sir. He has kept a succession of mistresses since he came into his inheritance, discarding them as soon as he is bored with them… six months is about the usual length of time. This I have had from Brockscombe and Medhurst, who know him well — better than I do, for I never go to town."

"And you believe that Bea is his next target? Why?"

"He has said very clearly that his intentions towards her do not include marriage."

The eyebrows lifted even more. "He has said so explicitly?"

"Yes, sir. I heard him myself, and so did my friends. You may ask them, if you wish. With his reputation, we fear the worst, and Bea — sweet, innocent Bea who hurls herself into life with such delightful enthusiasm, must seem like an easy target to as experienced a man as Grayling."

Franklyn nodded. "I understand your concerns, but I wonder if you do not refine too much upon his history. To me, he seems like a practised flirt, and if I had to guess, I would imagine there to be a ladybird in his keeping somewhere, but I find it hard to believe that he would seduce her here under the duke's roof, where she is a guest. I would think he is merely amusing himself for a while, trying to see how far she will surrender to his charms."

"And if she should surrender?"

"She cannot be permitted to do so, of course. You say she was out in the garden with him — alone?"

"Quite alone, and some distance from the house, a very secluded spot. Fortunately, Fielding saw them go, and we went after them and persuaded them back to the house."

"Then I thank you for that. Was she cross with you?" he said, eyes twinkling.

"She was rather," he admitted sheepishly. "It is not my place to interfere, but I could not stand by and do nothing, and it would have taken too long to find you or Lady Esther and explain the situation."

"Yes, and it would have created a great to-do and everyone would have known what was going forward. Your way was far more discreet. However, you have now quite correctly informed me of the matter, and may safely leave it to me."

"You are not going to sit on your hands and do nothing, I hope," Bertram said suspiciously.

Franklyn smiled. "No, I am not going to do that."

"Then… are you going to take her away?"

"I am not going to do that either, for it would draw unwanted attention to the matter."

"So will you—?"

"No more questions, I beg of you," Franklyn said, laughing and raising his hands defensively. "I shall deal with it in my own way, and, I sincerely hope, in a manner which will not raise awkward questions. Do you think it will rain tomorrow? I believe it will."

And not another word would he say on the subject, and Bertram could only retreat to his own room and lie awake for half the night fretting about Bea.

***

Bea retired to bed in a dispirited mood. After her triumph in the recitals, the rest of her evening had turned into a disaster. Bertram, of all people, had spoilt her attempt to put Lord Grayling's kissing to the test, and then Papa had drawn her away from Lord Grayling altogether, and into a discussion with the marquess, who was a charming man, of course, but difficult to talk to, it had to be said, although she had done her best.

The evening became immeasurably worse, however, when Mama sailed into her room, looming over the bed with a candelabrum in her hand, so that Bea squinted into the sudden brightness.

"So you are awake. Good." Setting the candelabrum down on the table beside the bed, she pulled a chair near to the bed and sat down with a grim expression on her face.

Suppressing a sigh, Bea hauled herself upright, and prepared to be harangued.

"You think you are very clever, no doubt, Beatrice, with your Latin poetry, and I will admit that it went down very well with some of the gentlemen. It makes no difference, however. That sort of learning, and by a female long out of the schoolroom, is most unbecoming, and you will not repeat it, nor pursue any further study of Latin… or Greek or Hebrew or any other long-dead language. You will restrict yourself to suitable employment for a lady, such as I have always taught you, and not let this friendship with intellectuals go to your head. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mama," she said dolefully.

"I am sorry Bertram interfered between you and Lord Grayling, for time is running out, I very much fear."

"Only three more days before we leave," Bea had said.

"I am thinking more broadly than that. You are one and twenty, Beatrice, and you should have been settled long before this. I have done my best, heaven knows, to instil the principles of demure behaviour into you, such as a man of rank looks for in his wife, but I fear it has not answered. There is just enough of the unseemly in your manner to deter the most particular. I always knew it would be difficult with your background, but I thought, with some effort on your part, and the size of your fortune, and… well, you are not unattractive, when your forehead is not creased up from studying too much, but here we are. I was insistent that you should not have to compromise, as I did."

"Compromise?" Bea said, puzzled.

"By marrying your father. As a duke's daughter, I should have married into the nobility. A younger son, perhaps, but at least an Honourable." She sighed. "But year after year I went up to town and dutifully danced at every ball. I was accomplished, I was ladylike and I had admirers, certainly, but none worthy of my rank. My sisters came out one by one, and all married well. Two earls and a baron. The younger son of a marquess. And still I waited. But then came the year I was twenty-six, still unwed and Grace waiting in the wings. Grace. My youngest sister. Sixteen, as lovely as an angel and she had thirty thousand pounds. So unfair! What could I not have done with thirty thousand pounds? An earl, at least. Or Lord Henry, who was only a younger son, but such a darling. However, with so many daughters, Papa could not give any of us more than ten thousand. Then Grace's godmother gave her thirty thousand. Thirty thousand pounds! My godmother gave me a silver cross when I was confirmed. Oh, and a prayer book bound in ivory. So you will understand why I had to act, before Grace swept in and took all London by storm and married a duke, and cast me entirely into the shade."

"But… this is the Lady Grace Skelton?" Bea said wonderingly.

"Skelton!" Lady Esther spat, her lip curling. "With all those advantages, she had to throw herself away on a nobody. Although, to be fair, he was the heir to an earldom until his uncle married the governess and started breeding sons. The governess! What a family!"

"I like Mr Skelton," Bea said.

"Everybody likes George Skelton, but one does not marry a man just because one likes him. He has to bring more to the marriage than a handsome face and charming manners. So I went to stay with my friend in Newcastle, and there I met your father who saved me from being an old maid."

"Even though he is a mere mister?" Bea said mischievously.

"He is an extremely wealthy mister," she said seriously. "Money is important, too. Perhaps even more important than rank. And he is undeniably handsome, and in very good condition for his age. Extremely good condition." Her expression softened momentarily. "That is important, too. Lord Brockscombe, for example, is well enough now, but one can tell at a glance that he will be stout before he is forty. I do not like stout men."

Her stepmother fell silent for a while, lost in some thoughts that were clearly pleasant for her lips curled up into something resembling a smile.

Eventually she sighed, and rose to her feet. "It is late, and you should be asleep. Time is short, Beatrice, but I do not yet despair of your prospects, nor fear that you will be unwed at twenty-six. There is still a possibility of Lord Grayling, but if that fails, you must keep going with Bertram. Persevere, Beatrice, persevere. You are very good at perseverance."

"Bertram does not want to marry, Mama."

"Nonsense! Look how attentive he has been these last few weeks. It will not take long to bring him to the point of a proposal, and you know well enough how to do that. I have given you enough hints. You will have your title yet, my dear."

"I am not sure I want a reluctant husband, Mama."

"No, indeed! Who would? It is up to you to ensure that he is not reluctant. But if Bertram cannot be brought round, then we shall go to Marshfields in the autumn… or Brandlebury… or Bath! There is an idea! All manner of men go to Bath over the winter. Yes, that might answer. But no more Latin, understood?"

"Yes, Mama."

"No more book learning of any sort. Remember always that you are a lady."

"Yes, Mama."

"Good. I am glad we understand each other. Now sleep, for tomorrow is another day, and another chance to secure a husband. And not a Sunday, thank heavens, so we will have some more interesting activities to amuse us than recitations from Shakespeare. Your father says that it will rain tomorrow, which seems to please him, but we must hope he is wrong about that. Good night, Beatrice."

"Good night, Mama."

Lady Esther picked up the candelabrum and left, plunging the room back into darkness. For a long time Bea sat unmoving, not even bothering to lie down again, mulling over her stepmother's words.

Lady Esther might be confident that Bertram could be brought round, and perhaps she was right. Bea had always been good at getting what she wanted, by the simple expedient of never giving up. Her indulgent father had always been an easy mark. Aunt Betty, who had looked after her when Mama had died, was just as unresisting. Walter had drifted into her net almost without realising it.

But there were some people who were immovable. Her stepmother was one such, and Bea had long since given up trying to convince her of any point she refused to concede. Bea had an uncomfortable feeling that Bertram was cut from the same cloth. Yet she could not pursue Bertram at all, for she had given her word and that was binding. She might not always behave in a ladylike manner, but she knew that a promise was sacrosanct, and must never be broken.

Yet if not Bertram, who else was there? Lord Grayling, who may be merely flirting with her? Mr Fielding, who loved her but was a mere clergyman? Lord Brockscombe, who kissed her only to steal a hairpin? Or Lord Thomas Medhurst, who forced a kiss upon her without so much as asking?

None of them set her heart racing, or warmed her inside, but at least if she married a man with a title she would have some standing in society. She would be Lady Grayling… or Lady Brockscombe… or Lady Thomas Medhurst. She would have a place in the nobility, and even the haughty Bucknells of Marshfields would have to acknowledge her as one of them. They would not be able to sneer at her as they now did… as they did even to Mama, for marrying a man without a title.

And that would be something, even if her marriage was not perfect. Surely that would be enough? She supposed glumly that it would have to be.

But as she lay down and closed her eyes ready for sleep, the image filling her inner eye was of Bertram, his sweet face and his smile of approbation as she recited Horace. And his kiss! Her whole body wriggled with pleasure as she recalled that glorious kiss.

If only she could marry Bertram! Then she would have a husband who lit fires inside her, and she could learn Latin too, and what could be more perfect?

If only.