20 A Wet Monday

Monday morning was grey and damp, the sky heavy with the promise of more rain to come. It was all in perfect accordance with Bea's mood. Once she had skipped along the echoing passageways to the old schoolroom each morning, but now her steps dragged. She hardly knew why she went there, for the Latin primer sat balefully on the table, willing her to open it. But she was forbidden, so she simply sat, arms folded, head lowered, deep in misery. She was so lost in her own depressing thoughts that she did not hear Bertram enter the room.

"Bea? Oh, Bea, whatever is the matter? You have not even opened your primer this morning."

"I am still forbidden from any sort of book learning, Bertram. Mama came to my room last night especially to tell me so, and to point out that my time is running out to find a husband."

"It is true that you will soon be leaving Landerby Manor, but that does not mean all is lost," he said.

"No, but I am one and twenty, and Mama believes I am quite on the shelf. She is thinking of taking me to Bath for the winter, but Bath is full of gouty old men and I do not want to marry a gouty old man."

"Not even for a title?" Bertram said teasingly, tipping his head to one side in a manner that reminded her of a bird. A robin, perhaps, for he wore a burgundy waistcoat this morning.

"Not even if he is a duke," she said despondently. "There has to be more to a man than his title. Oh, Bertram, it is so difficult! I want to marry, and to marry well, so that Mama and Papa will be proud of me, and the Bucknells will not sneer at me, but I also want a man who—" She had been about to say ‘whose kisses set me on fire', but stopped herself in time. That would lead to awkward questions that she could not answer — at least, not to Bertram. He must never suspect how he had made her feel, for that brief, glorious moment.

"Who is congenial?" Bertram suggested gently. "Someone, perhaps, who is a friend as well as a husband?"

"Yes," she said, for it was as good a description as any. "Someone I like to be with. And someone who permits me to learn Latin," she added, with some heat. "I am not cut out for tapestry work."

"I cannot imagine anything more tedious," he said, laughing. "It is so disappointing that Lady Esther is still of the same mind. I was so sure her opinion would soften once she saw how well your recitation was received. It was my idea, you know, to show you off to everyone, and you did it admirably, Bea. I was enormously proud of you."

"Were you?" she said shyly. "Then it was worth it, even though Mama disliked it. I enjoyed it, too. The words roll around in my head in such a majestic way. Will you let me listen to you, sometimes? Will you read Horace to me… or any of the poets? And pity me whenever you see me with my tapestry."

He reached across the table and took her hand in his. She almost gasped at the sudden contact. His hand was warm, sending energy pulsing through her. Such lovely hands he had, with long, sensitive fingers that she longed to stroke. Her heart took off at speed, and when she dared to look into his eyes, she was mesmerised, held fast in his gaze. Brown, but such a light, vivid brown, so alive with… affection? The affection of friendship, perhaps. But how odd, because Walter had never looked at her that way, even when they were betrothed. He had never made her heart race, either, or made it hard to breathe, or kissed her in a way that made her melt into an unfathomable swirl of emotion. He had never kissed her at all. Not like Bertram…

His voice swirled around her, warm and intoxicating.

"You must not worry about it. I promise you will find a husband, and a congenial one, too, and you will be able to drown in Latin, if you want. I promise, Bea."

And that just made her angry. Snatching her hand from his, she jumped up and away from him. "Don't make promises you can't keep!" she spat at him, her old Newcastle accent rising up to overcome years of Mama's careful training. "You can't promise anything!"

"But I can. I mean it, Bea." He followed her, reaching out to cup her face.

At the first touch she stilled, her anger replaced with… what? Some whirlpool of emotions she could not even identify. Fear was in there somewhere, and confusion, and wariness, and agitation, and uncertainty, for what could he possibly mean? But she stood, her breathing uneven, waiting… waiting…

Out of that raging torrent of feelings, it was hope that bubbled to the surface. Hope, because he was so close, so unbearably close, holding her face in his hands and surely he would kiss her again? How could he not? She wanted it so badly she ached inside, longed for him to hold her against him, to put his mouth on hers.

He would, he must…

A brisk rat-a-tat-tat on the door sent them spinning apart. Of all people, it was her father.

"So this is where you hide yourself away, Bea. Good morning, Atherton."

"Sir."

"Oh, is this your Latin book, daughter? ‘A Schoolboy's First Latin Primer'. So this is what the sons of gentlemen learn."

He was so cheerfully normal, as if he had not just burst in upon them on the brink of kissing. Bea could not look him in the eye, and was utterly incapable of speech. Fortunately, Bertram contrived some degree of composure and the two men talked of Latin lessons and tutors and school lessons, with only the slightest stumbling now and then on Bertram's side to suggest his own agitation. Was that merely embarrassment at being so nearly caught out, or was there more to it?

Eventually, her father said, "I was not looking for you in particular, Bea, but now that I have found you, perhaps you can help me. Is there such a thing as a large blackboard in here?"

"Oh… um… yes, I believe so. In the big cupboard over there, I think."

He rummaged around until he found what he was looking for, then called on Bertram to help him retrieve it. It was certainly large, and it was also filthy, coated in decades of grime and cobwebs.

"That will need a good scrub," Bea said.

"So it will. I shall send some footmen to take it down to the nether regions for the attention of the maids."

"What are you up to, Papa?"

He grinned boyishly. "The board is to keep the scores for a fencing tournament. Since the rain is likely to keep us indoors all day, the gentlemen will need some way to expend their energy. I have already recruited the duke and the marquess to the enterprise, and I believe Grayling is an exponent of the art, too. What about you, Atherton?"

"I am not very skilled with a blade," Bertram said dubiously.

"Your books are more enticing, no doubt. But this is only for fun. If you will be willing to make up the numbers, I shall allow you to be honourably defeated in the first round and retire to the library."

Bertram laughed. "Very well, sir, but I shall hold you to that. I will engage for no more than a brief appearance on the field of battle."

Breakfast was spent recruiting more competitors for the tournament. Then, when the gentlemen went off to their meeting, Bea and her father arranged the great hall in preparation, setting up the board with all the names, instructing the footmen to push all the furniture away to the sides of the room, and examining the available fencing swords for suitability.

Her father almost purred with satisfaction as they worked.

"You are looking forward to this," Bea said, amused. "Have you been horribly bored these past weeks?"

He paused from chalking names onto the blackboard. "I would not put it like that. I have felt a little spare, to be honest. My Latin is too poor for the scholars' meetings, and a man cannot be out riding all day every day. You and your stepmother are busy, so I am alone for most of the morning."

"You could have stayed at home."

"By myself? No one to talk to? That does not appeal! One cannot always be at home, and there is a deal of pleasure to be had in seeing my two ladies enjoying themselves. Still, I confess I shall be glad to return to my own house… my own bed. I miss the boys, too. Charles is at such an interesting age, and Henry is becoming quite a little man, learning to ride and to shoot."

"Is it my imagination, or might there be another one arriving before too long? Mama is looking very peaky in the mornings."

He laughed. "So it would seem, but for myself, I should like a daughter this time — a little girl just like you."

"Heaven forbid!" Bea said, eyebrows raised. "Another trouble-maker?"

"You have never been the least trouble, Bea," he said with a smile. "Your manners appal me sometimes, such as when you jilted Walter Atherton without a single kind word, but even if you are occasionally thoughtless, you are never malicious. You have a good heart, you just have to learn to consider the feelings of others a little more."

That stung! But she could not deny the truth of it, and poor Mr Fieldings' woebegone face rose up in her mind to chastise her even more. "I was very rude to Walter," she said miserably. "Do you think he was very upset? I never thought he cared much whether he married me or not."

"Nor did I," her father said. "He is lazy, like his father, and he took you because it spared him the bother of exerting himself. It will be good for him to have to earn his living. Sir Hubert tells me that he has done well in London, so there is hope for him yet."

"You have heard from Sir Hubert, have you? Did he mention Winnie? Is it official yet?"

"No, it is all off, seemingly. Her mysterious suitor has vanished just as suddenly as he appeared."

"Poor Winnie!" Bea said. "To be jilted at twenty-four — how humiliating!"

"There are worse fates in life," he said lightly.

"Such as what?"

"Better to be jilted than to become entangled with the wrong man," he said in surprisingly serious tones. He stepped back to scrutinise the blackboard. "There! I have arranged it so that the strongest fencers will not meet too soon, and I still have one spot left, in case Mr Fielding should change his mind."

Bea enjoyed the tournament enormously. There was a great deal of pleasure to be had in seeing men who were usually so formally attired, with starched cravats and fitted coats to give them dignity, stripped to their shirts and engaged in physical combat. Nor was it a game to them. It was thrilling to see the intensity with which they approached each match. Every point was a duel to the death, in their minds.

Mr Fielding, who was not participating, sat beside her, not saying much except the occasional comment on the current match, but his quiet company was pleasant. She was glad that he was no longer avoiding her company, although once or twice she caught a certain look in his eye as he looked at her, a wistfulness, perhaps, that made her feel guilty all over again.

Once he had been defeated, Bertram attired himself properly again and he too came to sit with her as she watched, and gradually his friends, too, as they were removed from the competition. There were few other ladies there. The duchess and her sisters watched for a while, and Miss Grayling hovered around the marquess as much as she could, but Bea's stepmother had shuddered at the very suggestion that she might attend.

"I cannot prevent you from being there, since your father has always indulged your interest in the sport, and perhaps it is no bad thing to see how gentlemen display their prowess with a blade, but I cannot bear to watch myself. Such primitive violence!"

Bea did not think it primitive at all. She had seen a bare-knuckle fight once at a fair, and that was a display of primitive violence, beyond question. So much blood! And one of the fighters had been knocked out cold on the ground and carried off by his friends, which quite spoilt her enjoyment of the day until she saw him walking around later with a tankard of ale in his hand, and laughing as if nothing had happened. But fencing — there was an art to that, and she loved to watch it.

Once again, the quiet marquess, so self-effacing in company, demonstrated remarkable ability. His light-footed grace in the dance was also an advantage when fencing, and he defeated his first opponent without effort. Lord Grayling had a different kind of talent, more powerful and inclined to overwhelm a more timid opponent. He made short work of Lord Brockscombe in the first round. Bertram had not overstated his ability, accepting his defeat at Lord Thomas's hands with grace.

One by one, the less adept fell by the wayside. The longest bout was between Lord Embleton and Lord Grayling, but in the end the baron's superior strength had the advantage. Which left a final round between Lord Grayling and Bea's father.

"You have had an easy run so far, Franklyn," Lord Grayling said, as they rested before the start of their match.

"One of the benefits of arranging the tournament is to choose my own place in the lists," her father said. "I imagine I am about to be tested to my limits now, however."

"Or beyond them, I sincerely trust," the baron said, grinning wolfishly.

Bea's father only smiled.

As soon as the match began, it became clear that the baron had underestimated his opponent. He lost two points very quickly, and his posture changed subtly. Bea guessed that he had judged her father, a man beyond forty, to be no more than a casual amateur, and it was true that his early rounds had not stretched him at all. Now the baron was forced to reconsider, and change his strategy.

For a little while they were more evenly matched, and Lord Grayling even managed to gain a point. But then, as if he tired of playing with his opponent, her father drew on his long experience and dispatched his opponent in a few swift bouts.

"Thank you, my lord, a most enjoyable match," Mr Franklyn said, as they shook hands.

Lord Grayling was too well-bred to show his displeasure openly, for he laughed a little and answered easily, "More so for you than for me, I imagine. I am not accustomed to be defeated quite so comprehensively. You keep yourself remarkably fit for a man of your age, Franklyn."

"Ah, but it is necessary, for I am the father of a daughter, and one never knows when one may have to deal with a presumptuous fellow. I like to be prepared."

"How very commendable," Lord Grayling drawled. "I do not think you will be much troubled by men of that sort."

"I certainly hope not."

Her father found a notebook, and began to record all the scores from the blackboard. At first the men stood around discussing the various matches and the skills on display, but gradually they wandered off to bathe and change, and the great hall emptied.

"You are going to send a report to the club," Bea said, as she watched her father busily writing.

Her father turned to her with a grin. "Certainly I am. They will love to hear about all these fine lords, and how they performed. I shall write it up in some detail and send it to Mr Potter to read out at the next meeting."

"You are enjoying this far too much, Papa, you sneaky thing. You did not tell them you were a champion in Newcastle."

"Well, I may have forgotten to mention it, but even if I had, they would not have believed I still have the skill. They look at me and see a few grey hairs, and think I am past it."

"And you carefully arranged to take on only the dawdlers before the final. Did you know that you would be facing Lord Grayling?"

"One can never know for sure, but if not him, then it would have been the marquess. Either would have served my purpose. Do you know why I arranged this tournament, Bea?"

"You just like showing off your skill."

He gave a bark of laughter. "That is certainly a part of it, and I have few enough skills, heaven knows, so I must make the most of those I have. Besides, all that practising in the attics should not go to waste, should it?"

"Papa," she said hesitantly. "You mentioned me… or at least, you mentioned having a daughter, and I can guess what you mean. Would you truly fight a duel?"

He folded his notebook, and tucked it into his coat pocket. "If I had to, yes. I would hope it would never be necessary."

"To deal with presumptuous men, yes," she said thoughtfully. "Are there any such here? Was all this a warning for someone in particular? Lord Grayling, perhaps?"

"He has a certain reputation, it is true," he said slowly. "I cannot be sure of what he might do if he finds himself alone with you. Who can see into a man's heart? If a man pays you marked attentions, that may be mere chivalry, or it may be mischievous, an idle flirtation. Or, if his intentions are honourable, he will eventually present himself to me for approval, as honest Mr Fielding did. But until that happens, one does not know what a man has in mind, and I would not like any man to think that you are unprotected. That is all."

"No one could imagine I am unprotected, Papa. You and Mama are here with me, after all."

"But your stepmother is not always with you. She thinks the duke's protection is enough, and perhaps it is, but I should not want there to be the slightest misunderstanding. Bea, I shall be honest with you. I have always given you enough room to be yourself, to make your own mistakes, but some men will take advantage of that. I do not want you to be subjected to any… unpleasantness, that is all. So I have had an afternoon's fun and, I sincerely trust, you will not be importuned by any unwanted attentions. But tell me, Bea, since we are being so open, what is this business with Latin? Is that simply a fine excuse to mingle with the gentlemen?"

"No, no! I enjoy the language, that is the only reason. I should love to become fluent so that I can understand everything, and not just learn poems by rote. The Latin poets have been dead for thousands of years, but their words bring them to life. They are immortal, Papa! Is that not amazing? I can read their words and imagine them walking about the streets, meeting their friends, gazing at a lover and admiring her white neck. I want to get to know them, to understand them. It is a great disappointment to me that I cannot learn more, although…" She giggled, hand to mouth. "Bertram says I shall be able to do whatever I want when I am married, even learn Latin."

Her father smiled, but said, "That is a bad reason to marry. You should marry a man who will take care of you and cherish you, Bea."

"Someone like Mr Fielding, you mean?" she said archly.

"Well, yes," he said laughing. "He is truly in love with you, although he seems to think you need to be sheltered from every wind that blows, which is not how I see you at all. Nor can I see you living in a parsonage, either."

"Oh, but it is a very snug parsonage, Papa. He told me so himself."

"What a dolt! He should have told you he would put a curate in the snug parsonage, and set you up in a fine estate — using your own fortune, naturally. But no, he would not suit you, I can quite see that."

"No, indeed, for I should not like to be plain Mrs Fielding."

He folded his arms and looked askance at her. "Are you so set on a title? Is it really so important?"

"It is. I want to be respected, Papa. I want all those superior folk at Marshfields to acknowledge that I am every bit as good as they are."

He was silent for a long time, then he said slowly, "But you are not, Bea."

It was as if her heart had stopped beating. "What do you mean?" she whispered. "I know you were an attorney once but—"

He waved her to silence. "It is not that. Not entirely that, anyway. Bea, your mother was already with child when I married her. She had… there was a man, he left her in difficulties, she told her father, and he asked me to marry her. I was only two and twenty, and still learning my trade under her father, but I had been in love with Eloise since the day I met her. I had always hoped one day to be made a partner in the business and marry her, but there it was, offered to me at once. We were married within days."

"But who is my father?"

"I am your father!" he said with fierce intensity. "In every way that matters, I am your father. I held you in my arms the day you were born, and I have loved you unreservedly ever since. I will always love you unreservedly, because that is what fathers do."

She was shaking, she realised. Why had she never been told this before? "Who knows about this?"

"Everyone in Newcastle, of course, for they can all count and you were born seven months after we married, and since your mother was staying with her cousin in Hartlepool, you are clearly not of my blood. But no one there treated you in any way disrespectfully, or Eloise, either. In an attorney's family, no one cares. It was only when I came into my fortune and we moved up in the world that it seemed to matter, so I told your stepmother of it. Unfortunately, her relations found out about it, too, probably from connections at Newcastle, and now they hold us in contempt — you for tainted blood, as they see it, me for accepting another man's child, and your stepmother for marrying into such a disreputable family."

"I do not see why anyone needs to know," Bea said with sudden heat. "It is what I am that matters, surely, not who my father was."

"For my part, I agree entirely, but these aristocratic families are obsessive about blood lines. There is also your mother's behaviour — getting herself with child before marriage. That shows a certain wildness, which might also show itself in you. When you come to marry, your husband will have to know, naturally, but if there had been any defects in your ancestry, they would surely have manifested themselves by now. So now you know why some of the Marshfields family look down on us, and many of their acquaintances in town, although not all, happily. The Athertons never minded about it. And I suspect that no one here knows of it, for you have been treated with every courtesy, have you not?"

She nodded, not sure she could trust herself to speak. She was as good as illegitimate! Her mother had been… she did not even know the word for it, except the Biblical ones that even Mr Dewar would not speak out loud.

"What can I do?" she whispered.

"You can forget all about it and be your own natural self," he said promptly. "I once thought… well, part of the reason for marrying your stepmother was the idea that she could teach you to be demure and ladylike, but I have come to realise that I like you much better the way you are, bumptious and unladylike as you sometimes are." He grinned. "And so will your husband, when you find the right man. So do not focus your search too narrowly on noblemen. A title is no guarantee that a man is of good character. Let your heart be the judge, Bea. Find a man who loves you for yourself, just as you are."

"Unreservedly?"

"Unreservedly," he said, smiling at her. "That is a love that will last for your whole life, and is a thousand times better than a peer's coronet, believe me."