23 An Explosion

Bea felt like a kettle that was just about to come to the boil. She had spent hours cooped up in the carriage listening to endless plans for Bath, and Bertram could not even stand up for her, but had to point out what a wonderful place it was. Bath! Which was full of dowagers and retired generals and no one below the age of sixty to talk to. And no Bertram, she thought miserably. No Latin. No long walks on the moors to work out the fidgets. Nothing but confinement and polite smiles and banal conversation. Just like London, only with the minuet, danced with a hooped skirt and lappets.

She could scream!

Ripping off her bonnet, gloves and pelisse, she splashed her face with the warm water already waiting in her room, and then whisked downstairs, meeting Harper on the way up.

"Don't you want to change your gown, Miss Franklyn? And maybe tidy your hair a little?"

"How could it have become untidy? I have done nothing but sit in the carriage for hours. My gown will do well enough for an inn dinner."

"Very well, miss." Harper's mouth set in a disapproving line, but Bea did not care.

In their private parlour, the table was still being laid for dinner, and various bottles and glasses set out on a sideboard. Bea poured herself a glass of wine, and prowled about the room until the servants left and she was alone. Then she hurled herself into a chair beside the empty hearth, and pondered her position.

On one point she was quite decided — there was to be no more chasing after lords. Or anyone, come to that. She was finished with all of that nonsense. If only she could go back to Newcastle and start again! To be back with Aunt Betty and Papa in the old house, where she had been happy. Before the fortune had dropped into Papa's lap. Before the big, new house. Before Lady Esther Bucknell.

And there she stopped. All of this, all her ambition had been driven by Mama. It was Mama who had tried to turn Bea into a lady. It was Mama who had convinced her to aim for the peerage. All of her present woes stemmed from Mama.

Yet she had rung a peal over Bertram, as if it were his fault! That was unfair of her, when he had been so kind to her.

So when he came into the parlour a few minutes later, armed with a book to read, she said, "I am very sorry I was so cross with you just now, Bertram. I did not mean it."

"Oh… it is of no consequence," he said absently, tossing his book from hand to hand.

"May I pour you a glass of wine?"

"Thank you. Yes… thank you." He took it from her hand without looking at her, and went to sit by the window, where raindrops chased each other down the uneven panes of the window.

She understood him. Now that she had rejected him, he had withdrawn again, and the easy terms on which they had existed for the past few weeks, which had given her such irrational hope, were gone. She sank even further into gloom.

Her father came in with the news that dinner was delayed. "Lady Esther is resting after the privations of the journey, so we shall not eat for another two hours. Atherton, feel free to order something if you are hungry."

"No, no, sir. I am perfectly ready to await Lady Esther's convenience."

"Has your groom arrived safely?"

"No, not yet." Bertram frowned a little. "I had expected him to be here well before this, for he left before us and we have been proceeding at an easy pace. Not much above forty miles!"

"He is taking very good care of your horse, I expect. A fine beast like that — he will not want to push him at all."

"True, and Whyte is an excellent groom. He will not risk Catullus."

"Then I expect he has merely taken a wrong turn somewhere. It is easily done."

"Yes, most likely that is all it is," Bertram said, with a quick laugh. "I told him to rest when he thinks it necessary, and stop for the night wherever convenient if he cannot reach Bawtry. He has money, and a letter of authority from me. I just wonder if he has encountered trouble — footpads, or some such. Horse thieves, perhaps."

"Then he will find the nearest parsonage and ask for help," Mr Franklyn said easily. "He seems a sensible lad."

Bertram gave a wry laugh. "I am worrying unnecessarily, I am sure. Next time, I shall do as you did and send my horse home a day or two earlier, to avoid all this." He returned to staring gloomily out of the window.

Bea's father smiled at her. "We have time for a walk before dinner, if you would like to stretch your legs, Bea."

She gazed at him in astonishment. "It is raining, Papa!"

He laughed. "Very well, then. How about a game of backgammon instead?"

"If you wish."

They played for a little while, but when Bea had lost three games in succession, her father put the set away. "We are all too tired and hungry to concentrate. Perhaps Mr Atherton would be so good as to read to us."

Bertram picked up his book with a rueful smile. "It is in Latin, sir. The Aeneid."

"I feel confident that a little Virgil will not corrupt my daughter beyond hope of redemption."

Bertram smiled, opened the book and began reading. It was a strange thing, Bea pondered, as the majestic words wove their magic around her, that Bertram was such a quietly-spoken man as a rule, not timid but never putting himself forward. Yet when he read aloud, his voice became that of an orator. It was as if the power of the man who wrote those words, so great that they survived to be reverenced in the modern age, transmitted itself to the man who merely read those same words. For a few minutes Bertram in a sense became Virgil, or Horace, or whoever he happened to be reading.

For a little while, all Bea's troubles drifted away in a cloud of Latin poetry. Her pleasure lasted precisely until her stepmother reappeared.

"Latin, Mr Atherton?" she said in her well-modulated voice. Did Mama ever raise her voice? Bea could not remember such an occasion.

"At Mr Franklyn's request, ma'am," Bertram said stiffly. "Poetry is very soothing at the end of a tiring day, do you not agree?"

She looked at him with slightly elevated eyebrows, as if astonished at such an outrageous suggestion, but turned smoothly to her husband. "At what hour have you ordered dinner to be served, Mr Franklyn?"

"In about an hour's time. No…" He checked his pocket watch. "A little under an hour, now. Should you like something at once? Some ham, perhaps, or—"

"No, thank you. My insides have been so jounced about I am not sure I could eat just yet."

"A glass of wine, then? That would settle your insides a little, I am sure."

"Well… perhaps."

Bertram closed his book with a snap. "I shall go and see if Whyte has arrived yet."

"Whyte?" Bea's stepmother said after Bertram had left, as she accepted the wine from her husband.

"His groom. He should have been here by now."

"Mr Atherton is concerned for his horse, I dare say."

"And for his groom," Mr Franklyn said sharply. "A boy of only sixteen years, who is not well versed in the ways of the world."

For a while, as Lady Esther sipped her wine, there was silence in the room, but it was not a comfortable silence, as between relaxed travelling companions. For Bea, her nerves already stretched to breaking point, it felt more like the charged atmosphere before a storm. She was not sure how much of it she could take and remain calm. So long as Mama said nothing more about Bath!

She could not be still, but her restless pacing drew immediate censure.

"Do sit down, Beatrice," her stepmother said. "You are making me dizzy with all this prowling about."

"She has been confined to the carriage for hours and it has been too wet to go out," her father said, in his mild way. "Let her walk about for a while if she wishes."

Lady Esther did not deign to acknowledge this comment. Instead she said, "Beatrice, I hope you will take advantage of this opportunity to enhance your friendship with Bertram Atherton. I have not yet given up hope of a match there, despite the lack of progress while we were under the duke's roof. He is attentive to you, certainly, but one would hope for something more by now."

Bea had nothing to say on the subject of Bertram. Let Mama harbour hopes in that direction if she chose, but Bea knew that they would come to nothing.

"Nor does it seem as if any of the other gentlemen present were swept off their feet by your attractions, either. Well, apart from Mr Fielding, and I trust we can do a little better than that."

Her father had found a local newspaper to hide behind, but Bea had no such shield and felt horridly exposed. Had Mama always been so… so cold? Poor, gentle Mr Fielding, to be so disdainfully dismissed! And Bea herself had been just the same until Bertram had kissed her and awoken her to the possibilities of a different approach to matrimony, one involving the heart as well as the head. And now that she was thoroughly awake, she was shocked by her old self. How avaricious she had been… how heartless!

Her stepmother ploughed on relentlessly. "When we are at home again, you will have a better opportunity to secure Bertram once and for all, but we cannot delay too long, nor can we depend upon Marshfields or Charity Ramsey. So I shall begin planning for Bath—"

"For pity's sake, no more about Bath!" Bea cried.

"But we have to begin making arrangements," her stepmother said.

"No. No arrangements. No plans. No Bath. I am not going to Bath." Her tone was forceful, but she was insistent on being heard this time. Surely Mama would listen to her — she must!

Her father lowered his newspaper and looked at her in surprise.

Lady Esther merely raised her eyebrows a delicate fraction. "Are you confident then that you can secure Bertram?"

"I am not even going to try."

Her father folded the newspaper and put it down.

"But Beatrice," her stepmother said, "what then will you do? Do you have someone else in mind? One of the Landerby gentlemen? Lord Grayling, perhaps?"

"Not Lord Grayling. Not anyone." Her voice rose even higher, and the Newcastle accent broke through, but Bea no longer cared. "I'm not going to marry anyone. Who am I to marry a lord, anyway? I'm not you, Mama! You've spent eight years trying to make me a lady and it hasn't worked. I'll never be a lady like you, never, because it's bred into the bones from birth. I'm nobody, nobody at all, and I'll never be fit to marry even someone like poor Mr Fielding. I can't do it, and you can't make me, not any more. I'd rather go and live with Aunt Betty than go on trying and trying and failing over and over again, like you did. Because that's all this is, isn't it? You want to succeed with me where you failed yourself. I have to marry a lord because you didn't and had to settle for Papa, instead. And I don't want to! Do you hear me? I don't want to! I've had enough! I'm sick and tired of being paraded about like a prize cow, so leave me alone and let me be an old maid if I want to. There's nothing wrong with being an old maid, because then I could do as I please and learn Latin and not try to be something I'm not, and that has to be better than settling for someone — anyone — just to get a ring on my finger and say I'm married."

So saying, she stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her for good measure.

Harper was in her room, laying out her nightgown, but a peremptory "Out!" sent her scurrying away. Then Bea hurled herself onto the bed and sobbed for a full ten minutes.

She never cried for long, however, and so it was on this occasion. She sat up, dried her eyes on her sleeve and washed her face. Then she was left with a dilemma. She would have to return to the parlour to apologise. Not to take back the substance of her tirade — certainly not that! But to apologise for the manner of it, that would have to be done. But if she went down too soon, she would have to sit and be chastised by Mama until dinner arrived, and that could not be borne. And if she went down too late, she would miss dinner and that was not to be borne, either.

As she puzzled over the problem, however, there came a tap at the door and her father's head appeared. "May I come in?"

"Only if you are not going to tell me I have behaved very badly, for I know it perfectly well."

He laughed, and came in, closing the door behind him. "I came to see if there is anything you need. A glass of wine? Shall I have your dinner sent up to you? There is no need to come downstairs if you prefer to be alone."

"Is Mama dreadfully cross with me?"

"Cross? No. Upset, yes. And very, very shocked." He gave a little chuckle. "I should not say this to you, Bea, and you must never tell a soul, but I enjoyed your little rant very much, if only to see the expression on your stepmother's face. Very few people dent her composure, but you managed it tonight."

"Oh! You certainly shouldn't tell me that, or I'll be tempted to do it again."

He laughed outright at that. "Do you truly want to go to your Aunt Betty? I should be extremely sorry for it if you do."

"Would you let me?"

The bed strings stretched and the mattress wallowed as he sat down beside her. "Of course, if it is what you truly want, even though I should miss you abominably. And you need not go to Bath or do the season or even go to Marshfields again, if you dislike the idea. You are of age now, and so long as you are suitably chaperoned, your life is yours to order as you please. You need not go anywhere or do anything against your will."

"Oh! I wish I had known this sooner."

"And for my part, I wish I had known sooner that you were unhappy under your stepmother's regime."

"Not so much unhappy… mostly bored, I think. Then may I learn Latin?"

"Of course. I am sure that Bertram would be delighted to assist your studies. I had planned to arrange it all once we got home, but you have pre-empted me. I think perhaps I have left you too much in your stepmother's care. I thought she knew what was best for you, but perhaps I should have intervened more to be sure you were being brought up to be yourself, and not moulded into something you are not. If learning Latin would give you pleasure, then by all means go ahead. I want you to be happy, Bea, and to be your true self. I was not comfortable with some of the ideas your stepmother put into your head. I only wish that you had exploded a little sooner, so that we could have spared you some, at least, of the misery you have clearly been suffering under for some years."

"It has not been so bad as that, Papa. I was content to follow Mama's advice, on the whole. For a long time I did as I was bid, because I believed it was what I wanted. It was only recently that I began to wonder at it."

"Because I told you that you are not of my blood?"

She hesitated. "That is part of it. Papa… do you know who he is, my other father?"

"No. I never asked and your mother never told me. Nor was there any clue amongst her private papers. The secret died with her."

"Did she have hair like mine? Because no one else in her family does."

"That came from your father, presumably."

She was pensive for a moment. "He could not have been a good man, could he? He should have married her. He should at least have looked after her."

"Without knowing all the circumstances, it is hard to say," he said slowly. "I do not like to condemn a man out of hand. Sometimes between men and women… things happen, Bea. It is not always easy to be sensible when one is young. I wonder sometimes if he ever thinks of your mother now, all these years later, and wonders what happened to her, and whether there was a child, and if so, what happened to her."

Bea was assailed by a sudden terror. "Could he… if he ever found me, could he… take me away?"

"No, absolutely not. There is no way in law for him ever to do so. You were born into my marriage to your mother, so I am your legal father and nothing can change that."

"Thank goodness!" She tucked her arm into his. "You are very good to me, Papa. When Nellie Blenkinsop shouted at her mother, she was confined to her room with nothing but bread and water for a week."

"What an excellent idea!" he said gleefully. "Or shall I just beat you until you submit?"

"And if I never submit?"

His laughing face took on a more intense expression. "I sincerely hope you never will, daughter. Always stand up for yourself and what you believe in. To be honest, I am astonished it took you as long as this to do so."

"Well, I have tried to hint to Mama that perhaps I am not suited to a life of embroidery and ladylike pursuits, but she is impervious to hints."

He laughed at that. "Your stepmother is an admirable woman, Bea, but her tenacity is almost the equal of yours. I set her the task of turning you into a proper lady, as she is, and she has worked diligently to achieve that aim. You have both worked diligently."

Bea sighed. "She had poor material to work with, I fear."

Her father shook his head at her. "Never say such things. The two of you are… different, that is all, but I love you both just the way you are."

"Unreservedly?"

"Of course. I was very proud of you when you recited your Latin poem at Landerby. In such company, that took inordinate courage, but then you have never lacked courage. Do you want some dinner now, or shall I order some bread and water sent up to you?"

"I will come downstairs, Papa."

Bea could scarcely believe how quickly the storm blew over. Papa was mildly amused by her outburst, and even Mama, who accepted Bea's heartfelt apology with her usual grace, had a twinkle in her eyes when she murmured, "You were wrong about one matter, Beatrice. I did not ‘settle for' your Papa, as you put it."

Beatrice, kneeling penitently before her, rocked back on her heels. "But it was a compromise — you said so!"

"Oh yes, because one is fearfully unrealistic when one is young. Especially so in a family of high rank, like mine, so that one grows up expecting one's husband to be perfect. For me, the perfect match encompassed three elements. Firstly, he should be noble, naturally, for I was noble myself. Secondly, he must be wealthy. And thirdly, he should be handsome and manly and… desirable. Well, when I married your Papa, I got two out of the three, and I discovered after I was married that there were other qualities in a husband just as important. Kindness, for instance, and generosity, and unstinting affection. And I still believe, Beatrice, that you could have all three, as well as the other important qualities, if you marry Bertram."

"But he does not want to marry me!" Bea cried. "He does not want to marry at all."

"Are you quite sure about that, Bea?" her father said.

"Oh, yes! He has told me so many times, and even if sometimes he may act as if… as if he holds me in some affection, that is just his kindness. Truly, he does not want to marry."

Their dinner arrived at that point, and then Bertram in a cloud of anxiety.

"Whyte is still not here?" Mr Franklyn said.

"No, and I begin to feel he will not arrive tonight at all. I wonder what on earth can have become of him?"

"It may be no more than a cast shoe," Mr Franklyn said. "There is nothing we can do about him tonight, so eat your dinner and put the boy out of your head for the moment. It will be time enough to worry if he does not arrive back at Westwick Heights."

Bertram nodded and said no more about it, but Bea thought he was unusually subdued for the rest of the evening.