21 A Lady In Distress

Bea was stunned. She felt just the way she had when she had fallen out of the old apple tree at the age of six or seven, all the breath knocked out of her and her lungs incapable of bringing in more. Everything she knew about herself was wrong. Even Aunt Betty, her father's oldest sister, who had looked after her for years, was not her aunt at all.

After her father had gone to change, she walked blindly out into the garden, finding even the high ceilings of Landerby too oppressive in her current mood. She needed air, cool air and a fresh breeze. What she found was air that was still damp from the rain, but at least it was pleasantly cool, and there was a slight breeze to fan her.

She walked here and there, although she hardly knew where, but only one thought was uppermost in her mind — how arrogant she had been, to think herself just as good as these people! To aspire to marry into the nobility! And all the time, she was no one at all, the child of an unknown father and a mother who was what Mrs Dewar described with a sniff of disapproval as a ‘fallen woman'. Someone who conceives a child without a husband, although Bea was hazy about quite how that could happen. Nobody took much notice if it was Maisie Whyte, the smith's daughter, but if it happened to a gentleman's daughter she was described as ‘ruined' and obliged to marry in haste to the nearest man who would have her. It was the same with an attorney's daughter, apparently, for her mama had been swiftly married to her father.

And if she had not, Bea would have been a bastard and not a respectable, or at least a relatively respectable daughter of a gentleman.

She found herself beside the nymph fountain, without the least idea how she had got there. It seemed a suitable place to stop her agitated perambulations, however, since the marble bench had been sheltered from the rain by the shrubs towering over it, and so was merely a trifle damp.

It was there, as she sat contemplating the poor, neglected statue, that she reached a resolution. She must stop chasing after the mirage of a titled husband, now that she knew her true origins. In fact, she was not at all certain that she was a fit wife for anyone. She would go home and be good and work at her tapestry, and try to be worthy of whatever man deigned to offer for her. Perhaps she should accept Mr Fielding after all, and live in the snug parsonage…? No, she was not quite that desperate.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she almost jumped in shock when a tall figure loomed over her. But it was only the marquess, his face creased in worry.

"You are s-s-s… unhappy, Miss F-F-Franklyn."

"Oh… not really… it is nothing that need alarm you, Lord Embleton. I have just received a shock, that is all."

At once, the worry lines deepened. "Not a death in the family? Not a t-t-tragedy?"

He sat down beside her, taking her hand in his. Without gloves, it felt scandalously intimate to hold hands in that way, but she did not want to insult him by snatching her hand away. He had attractive hands, she decided, soft and white and cool. Not as shapely as Bertram's, which were long and slender, but very pleasant to hold.

"No, no, nothing tragic. Nothing recent, in fact. Some family history of which I was unaware, that is all. Something a little surprising… about myself, so I have come to realise that I have been very foolish, and setting myself up for failure. I came to Landerby to find—"

She stopped, aware of the impropriety of spilling all her secrets to this man she scarcely knew.

"A husband?" he said gently.

She nodded. "And now I realise how presumptuous of me that was. I do not think I even have the proper character to be the wife of any man, let alone a lord. I am too selfish… too brazen. Even my own father calls me bumptious."

The marquess laughed. "But you are also k-k-k—" He stopped, sighed, tried again. "K-K-K—" Again he stopped, then almost shouted, "Kind! Very."

"But I am not," she said sadly. "I am rude and thoughtless and say whatever comes into my head, without considering how it may upset the other person. It is only afterwards that it occurs to me that I should have been more subtle, and dressed things up a little to avoid giving offence."

He shook his head violently. "Not s-s-subtle. I hate subtle. People s-s-say things, b-b-b—" He gave an exclamation of annoyance, and released her hand to reach into a pocket and produce a small notebook and pencil. He scribbled away furiously, tearing off each page as it was filled, and passing it to her to read.

‘Miss Franklyn, I am surrounded by sycophants who smile and tell me lies. They may be subtle but they are also hypocritical and I wish I could escape them once and for all. You have never been like that. You never get impatient with my speech and try to guess what I am trying to say. You have no idea how much I hate it when people do that! Also, when we first sat on this bench, you chattered away to keep me company without needing me to say a word, which was delightful. And yes, you are kind. You may speak before considering the consequences sometimes, but you are willing to admit to that fault and correct it as far as possible. Look how considerately you dealt with Mr Fielding in the letter you wrote to him, which he has proudly shown to his particular friends as an example of your generous heart. It is the gentlest rejection a man could ever hope to receive. So never say of yourself that you are unkind, for it is untrue. You may be selfish to a degree, for which of us is not? Only a saint, and who wants to be a saint? An entirely good person would be tedious company, I think. Miss Franklyn, you have one quality that I, and many others, value above all others, and that is honesty. I despise all those who say one thing to my face and another behind my back. How can one ever trust such a person? You are worth a thousand of such miserable snakes. I hope you will never change. Please, do not be sad any longer.'

Impossible not to smile at such words! "Thank you," she whispered. "I feel much better now, but I must go and dress for dinner."

He nodded, smiling, then reached for her hand again and raised it to his lips.

Impulsively she leaned towards him and kissed him full on the mouth. "You are a dear, sweet man, and I hope you find a wife who values you as you deserve."

Then, giggling slightly at the stunned expression on his face, she skipped away down the path.

***

After that strange moment in the old schoolroom, when he had as good as declared himself to Bea and then almost kissed her, Bertram stumbled through the day in a daze. He was silent at breakfast, silent through an interminable and dull lecture on Tacitus, silent during most of the fencing tournament. He was still silent as Bayley dressed him for the evening.

"Have you had a good day, sir?" Bayley said politely, as he fitted Bertram's shoes onto his feet.

"Yes, thank you, Bayley."

"Did you enjoy the tournament, sir? Mr Franklyn won, I gather."

"Yes. Franklyn won."

"Against Lord Grayling."

"Yes."

Bayley gave it up, and uttered not another word. Bertram barely noticed, so lost in his own thoughts was he. His mind was in such turmoil that he felt himself unfit for company, so when his friends arrived to dress for dinner, he slipped out of the room and made his way to the chapel gallery. Below him, the low sun cast long shadows across the floor, but up in the gallery where no rays could reach it was almost dark, and blessedly quiet.

There he gave himself up to the tumultuous thoughts spinning through his head. Joy and astonishment and exaltation and hope and exhilaration and terror chased each other like hounds let off the leash, wild with excitement. He wanted to race around like that himself, running and leaping and howling with the bliss of his first love. What was Horace to this delirium? How had the poets ever had the power to move him, when set beside the delicious sight of a tremulous smile or a scorching glance or a pair of soft… oh, so soft lips? She burned into him and yet he yearned with all his being for her touch. How many times had he read of such feelings? The reality was a thousand times better.

Yet there was also remorse. What a fool he had been, to say such things to Bea, to make promises he could not keep and even to be on the brink of kissing her again. It was only an inch away from a proper declaration, yet he could not, must not tell her all that was in his heart.

If only he could be sure of inheriting the earldom! With that prospect before him, even if many years away, he could go to Bea with a light heart and speak of love and marriage and how much he wanted to hear her talking in Latin for the rest of their lives. Or English, if ever she tired of Latin, it mattered not, so long as she were his wife.

But Lord Rennington might yet marry again and sire an heir, and then Bertram would be merely Mr Atherton forever more, and could not offer Bea the title she wanted and so richly deserved. He was in no position to make promises to her, and yet he so badly wanted to tell her everything. He quite understood Fielding's precipitate proposal. When he was with Bea, he could think of nothing else, with his senses overwhelmed by her closeness — her smooth skin that made him want to touch her, the blue eyes gazing at him so clear-sightedly, the hearty way she laughed, not a mild titter like most women. There was such life in her, and she filled him with life, too. She was like a fountain spilling energising water into a pool, and he was suddenly parched with thirst. Never before had he needed anything but his books and his family, but now he needed Bea with an aching that tormented him day and night.

But for all the anguish of unrequited love, he could not help laughing out loud for the sheer joy of it. He was in love, so deep in love that he might never find his way back to reality, but he did not care. It was enough to feel as he had never felt before. What a strange half-life he had been living, trapped in the world of two thousand years ago and not seeing the world around him in the present day.

Now that his eyes had been opened, he knew precisely what he would do. He could not speak yet, not until he knew for certain of his uncle's intentions, but once that question was settled, then he would open his heart to Bea. Perhaps she would reject him at first if the title was unlikely to come his way, but he was sure he could win her over, in time.

He was no longer concerned that she would marry one of his friends. She had rejected Fielding, Brockscombe seemed to be satisfied with a kiss and a hairpin, and Medhurst was still mooning after the lovely but vapid Miss Grayling. As for Miss Grayling's brother, Franklyn had seen him off comprehensively. That was an elegant way to deal with a man with questionable intentions! Now Grayling knew that if he dishonoured Bea in any way, Franklyn would call him out and would very much have the upper hand. Grayling was no fool, and would not risk that sort of scandal.

Dinner that evening was dominated by a point by point discussion of the fencing tournament, every move analysed to within an inch of its life. Bertram was amused to see Franklyn accorded an unaccustomed degree of deference. Franklyn was self-effacing, and pointed out that he himself had enjoyed a very easy run, while Grayling had suffered a long and strenuous match against the marquess, but he seemed to be flattered by the attention, nevertheless.

As for Bea… Bertram's heart ached for her, for it was clear she was miserable. She was situated beside the marquess, but he had Miss Grayling on his other side who monopolised his attention. Medhurst was on Bea's other side, having failed to find a place beside Miss Grayling, but passed the entire meal trying to overhear her conversation with Lord Embleton. No one seemed entirely happy with their situation. If only Bertram had been quicker, perhaps he could have secured Bea's company for the meal. Surely he would have done a better job of making her smile than Medhurst.

After dinner, there was dancing again, and at least Bertram managed to stand up with Bea once, but only for a reel which was too energetic for conversation. By the time Lady Esther rose to retire, taking Bea with her, he could not claim to have exchanged more than a dozen words with her all evening. It was maddening.

Once the ladies had withdrawn and the serious card players had settled down with brandy to hand and steely determination in their eyes, Bertram and his friends drifted away, first to the courtyard to get some air and then to their room for a final brandy before bed.

Fielding turned on Medhurst almost before they were through the door. "What was amiss with Miss Franklyn, Medhurst? She looked so down-pin tonight, I could hardly bear it. No bad news from home, I trust?"

"Nothing like that," Medhurst said, ripping off his cravat with a sigh of relief and accepting a glass from Bertram. "Lady Esther forbids her from learning Latin, that is all."

"That is all? That is all? The heroine of Sunday night, who recited Horace as well as anyone could… well, almost… only one or two minor mistakes… but that she should be forbidden from progressing with the language! Why? What is so bad about Latin, which every schoolboy learns?"

"It is not ladylike," Bertram said, with a wry smile. "A lady is supposed to sit about with her needlework, apparently."

The others burst into laughter. "I cannot see her being happy with that," Medhurst said. "It seems an unwarranted interference. Who is Lady Esther to be so high-handed?"

"She is Bea's mama," Bertram said testily. "Until she marries, a girl must do as her mother bids her."

"Then she must marry at once," Fielding said, "if only to save her from the wretchedness of a future without Latin. Such a waste! Oh, the delight of finding a woman who can understand one's interests, and discuss them rationally. So many husbands and wives might as well be in different countries for all the commonality they share. I shall approach her again and assure her of my unchanged regard, while pointing out the advantage to her of marrying a man already fluent in Latin. Who better to teach her than a devoted husband?"

"You have already had your chance with her," Bertram said, seriously alarmed by this sudden turn, for Bea might be sufficiently cast down to accept Fielding this time. "She refused you, remember?"

"I took her by surprise," Fielding said. "I was too precipitate, perhaps… forgot to prepare the ground in advance. Now that she has had time to consider the matter, she might feel differently."

"She will never marry a clergyman," Bertram said hotly.

"Has she told you that?"

"Yes. She wants a title. That was why she jilted my cousin, because he is no longer the heir."

"Truly?" Fielding said, deflating at once. "Oh. Of course, she deserves it."

Brockscombe glowered at Bertram. "Is this true? She threw him over because of a title?"

"And an income of eight thousand or more, Corland Castle, a house in London and half a dozen other properties," Bertram said. "Walter is merely the illegitimate son of an earl now, with no expectations at all. Everything is entailed."

There was a sigh as they grasped the implications. "Eight thousand a year!" Medhurst said, shaking his head sorrowfully. "And the castle, of course, and a multitude of other properties. The world is very unfair sometimes. And he would have had Miss Franklyn's forty thousand, on top of all that," he added meditatively. "Another two thousand a year."

"I quite see why she dropped him," Brockscombe said, "but I would have thought you were the natural successor to your cousin, Atherton. You are the heir now, after your father."

Bertram hardly knew how to answer him. He had backed himself into a corner, for if he admitted that Bea had indeed set her sights on him but he had turned her away, he could hardly admit that marrying her was now exactly what he wished to do.

It was Fielding who intervened. "Oh, I see it now! That is why you brought her here and sang her praises up and down, so that Brockscombe or Medhurst would take her up." He laughed. "So that was why you sounded as if you liked her yourself."

"I do like her!" Bertram cried, stung. "She is a darling, and she did think about me, it is true, but… but I thought she ought to have a wider field," he went on, improvising hastily.

"No, you said you did not want her," Brockscombe said. "You did not want anyone, in point of fact. I remember it distinctly. ‘Take my advice and steer clear of the wedded state.' Those were your words."

Bertram cursed Brockscombe's excellent memory. "Well, perhaps I have changed my mind. Better she should marry me and learn Horace and Virgil than end up in a parsonage with Fielding, who would have her head filled with battles and troop movements and all sorts of nonsense."

"There is nothing wrong with the Caesars in general, and Julius in particular," Fielding said at once, "and I think it most unfair of you, Atherton, to try to cut me out at this point."

"It is Miss Franklyn who has cut you out," Brockscombe said, "but I agree that Atherton should stay out of this. He has renounced all claim to her hand, so—"

"I have done nothing of the sort!" Bertram said hotly. "I stood aside to give you two a chance — not Fielding, since she wants a title — but neither of you has offered for her."

"It is a momentous decision to make," Brockscombe said. "It requires a lot of thought."

"I cannot see that you have thought about it at all," Bertram said. "All you have done, Brockscombe, is steal a kiss and a hairpin, so be satisfied with your trophies and leave her alone."

"I shall not!" Brockscombe began.

"Now see here," Medhurst said. "I am the one most in need of her forty thousand pounds."

"But I laid claim to her before any of you," Brockscombe said. "She is mine."

"Stop it!" Bertram yelled. "Stop talking about her as if she is an apple to be picked from the tree whenever you want. She is a person, for heaven's sake!"

"What has got into you, Atherton?" Brockscombe snapped. "You are impossible these days. I am going to offer for her, and if she turns me down… but why would she? A viscountcy, five thousand a year and as pretty an estate as you would see anywhere. No, she will not turn me down, but if she does, then you may try your luck, Medhurst."

"Why should you have the first turn?" Medhurst said, poking Brockscombe in the chest.

"Why should he have any turn?" Bertram cried, throwing caution to the wind. "Why can you not leave her alone, both of you?" Seeing Fielding about to speak, he added, "All of you. Let her go home, recover from the annoyance of you three and then, in a few months—"

"A few months!" Fielding wailed.

"I see no reason why we should wait," Medhurst said. "Despite your carping, Atherton, I have been thinking about it, for I need to marry, and soon, since my poor brother is woefully short of heirs. I should not have rushed into it quite so quickly, but here is a lady in distress, deprived of the joy of Latin, and I have the ability to make her happy again. And raise her up in the world. Lady Thomas Medhurst — it sounds well, do you not think?"

"Lady Brockscombe sounds better."

"And Lady Rennington sounds best of all," Bertram said recklessly.

"And how long would it be before she could call herself that?" Brockscombe said. "Many decades, we must all hope. You have no title yet, Atherton, not even a courtesy affair, so you are out of the reckoning. I shall go first and—"

"She should have a proper choice," Bertram said. "If we all want to save her from the desert of a life without Latin, then we should all go to her at once and lay this question before her. Then she can decide for herself."

It was a gamble. Surely they would not take him up on it?

But they did.

"Very well," Brockscombe said.

"All of us at once," Medhurst said. "Even Fielding. And you, Atherton, I suppose. Then she can see what is on offer, and pick the best."

"When?" Fielding said.

"She will be in the old schoolroom before breakfast," Bertram said. "Eight o'clock."

"Eight o'clock?" Brockscombe said, horrified. "That is the middle of the night!"

"You need not come if it is too early for you," Bertram said.

"No, no. I shall be there." He exhaled sharply. "Lord, eight o'clock! In the morning! I shall never hear the end of it."