26 An Unexpected Visitor

Bea hurled herself into learning Latin with all the enthusiasm with which she had once chased after a husband. As soon as she rose in the morning, she was reading her primer, or one of the other books Bertram had brought. She ate her breakfast with a book propped in front of her, and then went straight to the library. Her father looked in from time to time, but there was no sound except the scratch of chalk on slate, or the whisper of pages being turned, so he left her to study until noon, when Bertram arrived. Even after the lesson, when her faithful tutor had long since left the house, she worked on until summoned by her stepmother for some tedious outing or other, or to sit about the saloon awaiting callers.

One afternoon, not long after Bertram had left, her stepmother came to find her. Bea was still working on some exercises Bertram had given her to do before the next day's lesson, and he had written out a short piece of his own composition for her to translate, so she was not pleased to be interrupted.

"What is it, Mama?"

"Did you not hear the carriage, Beatrice? We have a caller!"

Something in the tone of Mama's voice alerted Bea's senses. Was it possible… could it be… that Mama was excited?

"Do you wish me to change my gown?"

"No… no, you look well enough. A little pale, but that is no bad thing. A white complexion set against your hair is a striking combination. Ah… so much chalk dust, but it will not show on that gown. Come now. We will wait in the Gold Saloon."

Then Bea knew that the caller must be someone very important. One of Mama's grand relations, perhaps. Not the duke himself, but perhaps the Marquess of Ramsey, his heir. Or Charity Ramsey, the marchioness! Although what such people could be doing in this remote corner of Yorkshire was beyond her.

Hobbs and two footmen were scurrying around in the Gold Saloon, making minute adjustments to cushions and small tables, laying out drinks and plates for refreshments, and throwing open the shutters, for the room was seldom used. A housemaid rushed in with a vase of flowers.

Mama walked serenely through the bustle. "He is with your father just now, but we must be ready when he comes through. We will sit here, I think. Your needlework, Beatrice. Your work basket is over there."

She picked up her own delicate piece of embroidery, arranged her skirts and placidly began work.

Bea did as she was bid, but her mind was racing. Someone with her father? Someone wanting to pay his addresses? Not Bertram, surely… her heart gave a little jump of pleasure at the thought, but she squashed it at once. Bertram would not be here to offer for her, she knew that perfectly well. That strange visit from him and his friends at Landerby was not a serious proposal, and now that he had escaped, he would never repeat it. Had he not told her over and over that he had no intention of marrying? Sometimes she thought she saw a certain light in his eyes which would have given her hope if she had let it, but she dared not. Bertram would never offer for her and she had promised not to pursue him, so that was the end of that.

Yet if not Bertram, the visit was a mystery. "Who is it?" she whispered.

Mama whispered back, "The Marquess of Embleton. Oh, Beatrice! You are going to be a duchess!"

Bea was too shocked to speak. A marquess! A future duke! Of course it was gratifying, but— Oh, dear heaven, how could she possibly refuse a future duke?

Common sense intervened. He could not conceivably be here to offer for her. She had hardly spent any time with him at Landerby, and he had given no indication that he was interested in her, or in marriage at all. He had hidden himself away in the garden to avoid the purposeful pursuit of Miss Grayling and her friends. No, his presence here must be for entirely different reasons that had nothing to do with her. Mama had misunderstood, that was all.

At these reassuring thoughts, her racing heart calmed a little. She opened her work basket, retrieved a crumpled piece of embroidery and settled down to pretend to sew. Only the little current of disquiet inside her refused to subside — what if Mama was right? What on earth was she to do if a future duke were to offer for her?

It was only twenty minutes by the clock, but to Bea the waiting was endless. Then, carriage wheels were heard on the drive outside. Mama was up in a moment, rushing to the window in a manner which would have earned Bea a stinging rebuke.

"He is leaving!" Mama said, breathing heavily. "How can he leave without even speaking to you? It is unconscionable! Whatever has John said to turn him away like that?"

Bea had never heard Mama refer to her husband as anything other than ‘Mr Franklyn' or ‘your father', so to hear his Christian name used told her more clearly than anything else how agitated Mama was. But to Bea, there was nothing but relief. He was not going to offer for her! Either he was here on other business altogether, or Papa had deterred him. Perhaps he had told Lord Embleton the story of her birth, and he wanted nothing more to do with her. That would be an unexpected benefit to her origins!

Voices in the hall, then on the steps outside. The sound of a carriage door closing, a cry of ‘Away!' and the carriage set off down the drive. Moments later, her father came into the saloon.

"What have you done?" Mama cried. "Why did you let him go?"

"He returns tomorrow," Papa said. "There is no cause for alarm, my dear. All is well."

"But what did he say?"

"Very little, for he is not a man who finds talking easy. However, he has given me a letter for Bea. He does not feel himself capable of finding sufficient words in speech, but he is very fluent in the written form. So sit, both of you, and I will read it to you."

"It is not private, then?" Bea said in a small voice.

"It is addressed to you, but there is nothing of an intimate nature in it. He wishes it to be read aloud."

They all sat and the letter was produced.

‘My dear Miss Franklyn, Pray forgive me for writing thus to you words which should more properly be spoken, but you will understand the reason for it, and your generous nature will forgive me, I am sure. When I went to Landerby Manor, I had no thought beyond the call of Latin, and the fellowship of men of like mind. My anticipation was keen for our daily discussions, but I dreaded the evenings, when I would be obliged to join a different kind of company. I have never been easy amongst ladies, especially as the circumstance of my birth and destined high rank makes me a target for the ambitions of a certain type of young lady. On this occasion, I was surprised to find one young lady in the company who displayed no such ambition, who treated me only with kindness, and an open-hearted generosity of spirit that I found utterly beguiling. Such beauty and liveliness, such goodness and tenderness in one person inspires me to the greatest heights. I have not the words in English, but in Latin, oh my dear Miss Franklyn, believe me when I say that the words have flowed from my pen unceasingly. I enclose a sample, with translation." Papa waved a second paper. "Even then, I might have gone away, a little regretful perhaps, but otherwise heart-whole, had you not bestowed upon me that gentle sign of your affection. When you kissed me, my very dear Beatrice, how could I refuse the sentiments you so freely offered me? I knew then I could not contemplate life without you. I have talked to my father, who is perfectly content to leave my choice of bride to me. I come therefore, most humbly to beg you to consent to be my wife. I shall return tomorrow to hear your answer. Yours in deepest affection, Ralph Embleton.'

Silence fell. Bea was too horrified to speak, too agitated to sit still. She jumped up, striding across to the window. She was tempted to cry, but it was too serious for that.

"You kissed him?" Mama said faintly.

"Only a… a sisterly sort of kiss," Bea said, whirling round. "I never imagined… how could I guess…?"

"A kiss is a kiss," Mama said firmly. "There is no such thing as a sisterly kiss, not with a marquess. You have led him to believe you have an attachment to him, and now he very nobly offers you his name. How wonderful, Beatrice! What a clever girl you are. This is so much better than the Athertons and their mere earldom. May I be the very first to wish you joy."

Bea was thrown into total confusion. Lord Embleton wanting to marry her! She left her parents to gloat and retreated to the library, the marquess's letter in one hand and his poem in the other, and tried very hard not to cry.

What had she done? She could see her own foolishness all too clearly, in bestowing kisses, even sisterly ones, on men who turned out to be rather susceptible to such behaviour. Even Bertram and his friends had, albeit half-heartedly, offered for her, but that had been private and she had never confessed it to Mama or Papa. But when a marquess came in aristocratic state to formally ask for her hand — there was no hiding that.

A month ago, even two weeks ago, she would have gloried in such a proposal. She would have accepted Lord Embleton without an instant's hesitation and married him confident that his rank and position in society were all she wanted. But now, with Bertram, she had glimpsed the possibility of a different kind of marriage, one that had nothing to do with rank and everything to do with affection. With passion. With love.

She read again his letter, and found it strangely unemotional. The poem… yes, there was certainly some feeling in it, more than the letter, but still, it was… unsatisfactory. It was like Lord Brockscombe's kiss, pleasant enough but without fire. How could she marry him with no fire? How could she marry anyone with the memory of Bertram's kiss burning inside her? It was impossible.

Her father came to see her after a little while, pouring wine for them both and then sitting in Bertram's chair facing her across the desk.

"You do not seem very happy about this, Bea."

"It is such a shock," she said. "I had no idea."

"No? I confess I noticed no particular attentions from him, but you were always surrounded by Atherton and his cronies. That was where we expected your future to lie. Your stepmother was very hopeful of Atherton, but this is beyond her wildest dreams."

"Is it?" Bea said wanly.

Her father gave her a searching look. "I thought it was what you wanted, too. After all, you seem to have played him perfectly — not chasing him openly, like the others, simply treating him as a mere acquaintance, so that he cannot even see the game you are playing, and then sealing the deal with a kiss. No wonder he finds you irresistible."

"I was not playing a game, Papa, not with Lord Embleton! I felt sorry for him, that was all, and I thought he had no wish to marry at all, so I never even tried to attach him. And the kiss meant nothing, truly. How could I guess he would imagine my affections were engaged?"

"Do you dislike him?"

"No, not at all."

"Does the speech problem trouble you?"

"Oh, no! He is the most restful man to be with."

"He will not stop you learning Latin, if that is a concern. He cannot teach you himself, but he would engage a tutor for you."

"He told you that?"

Her father smiled. "I asked him. Bea, I cannot think you are overwhelmed by the prospect of being a duchess, for you have always had an abundance of confidence in your ability to take on any r?le. So what holds you back?"

"Papa, it is but a few days ago that I decided never to marry."

Her father shook his head, smiling affectionately at her. "I cannot believe you meant any of that, Bea. Marriage is every woman's ambition, surely, however much she puts a brave face on spinsterhood. For eight years now, ever since your stepmother came into our lives, you have focused all your hopes on marrying a man with a title. Are you truly asking me to believe that you have given up that ambition irrevocably?"

She was taken aback. If Papa did not believe her, what hope did she have of escaping this marriage? "Didn't you mean what you said? About wanting me to be happy and true to myself?"

"Of course! But you will be happiest within a contented marriage. The marquess has a sincere affection for you, and he will not chafe you, of that I am certain. You may learn Latin or whatever hobby takes your fancy, and be as true to yourself as anyone could be, as a marchioness. Bea, you said you wanted to be respected, and so you shall be — as the Marchioness of Embleton, and in time as the Duchess of Bridgeworth. Believe me, you will have all the respect you could wish for, and that will make me very proud. You will never get a better offer than this, and it will be disappointing if you throw away this opportunity for some frivolous reason. That is all."

The evening was endless. Mama was cock-a-hoop at the prospect of her stepdaughter becoming a duchess in the fullness of time, and although she was too proper to discuss the matter before the servants, whenever they were alone she exulted, and began making plans for the grand wedding that Bea's new status demanded.

Her father, by contrast, talked of everything but the presumed forthcoming wedding, and watched Bea uneasily. That, more than anything, brought home to her the gulf that had unexpectedly opened between them. She had thought they understood each other pretty well, she and her father. Always he had taken her side against Lady Esther's wilder ravings, and even when he was not minded to speak out, he had thrown amused glances at Bea, as if to say, ‘Don't worry, I won't let her eat you alive. It is still the two of us against the world.'

Now he had abandoned her, loading her with the weight of his own expectations, and walking implacably away. ‘That will make me very proud.' What daughter could hear those words and not want to obey the ambition behind it? But neither the marquess himself, nor his future dukedom, appealed to her, and she had no idea what to do about it.

She felt trapped, like a duck hiding in the long grass listening to the guns in the distance, hoping to escape notice, but knowing that, sooner or later, the beaters will come and she will have no choice but to fly up in terror and be shot down. Just another dutiful daughter of the gentry, falling, falling under the guns of society's expectations.

As soon as she had drunk her tea after dinner, she asked if she might retire.

"Of course, dear," her stepmother said. "You have an important day ahead of you, so get some sleep, if you can. It will be difficult, when you must be so excited. I have already asked Harper to press your new Indian muslin for tomorrow. It is a little fine for ordinary day wear, but for such a momentous occasion, one would rather do too much than too little."

"Thank you, Mama. Good night. Good night, Papa."

"Good night, Bea," her father said, looking searchingly at her. "If you have any concerns about this step, your prayers will bring counsel, I am sure."

"As well as the Sixth Commandment," her stepmother said smoothly.

"Yes, Papa. Yes, Mama."

Bea curtsied and escaped to her room, but there was no relief there, not in prayer nor in the commandments. ‘Honour thy father and thy mother,' indeed! As if she did not do so. As if she had not always done so. As if she did not want to be a dutiful daughter, and make her father — both her parents — proud of her.

But she also wanted not to have to marry the Marquess of Embleton, and it struck her now how odd that was. Surely every young woman wanted to marry, and to marry as well as she could, not just for her own sake, but for the sake of her entire family. She had no sisters to benefit from her ennoblement, not yet, but her young brothers would find their lives made easier by a duchess in the family. Her father could visit her at Bridgeworth and not be a despised outsider as he was at Marshfields. Even Aunt Betty and all the Newcastle cousins could visit, because she would be the duchess and no one could doubt her right to issue the invitations.

Yet that was no reason to marry anyone.

Harper came to help her undress, but instead of blowing out her candle, Bea propped herself up in bed and contemplated her dilemma. If she were to marry the marquess, she would please her parents, certainly, and naturally it would be gratifying to hold such high rank, but…

But what? ‘Do not throw away this opportunity for a frivolous reason,' her father had said, but what reason did she have? How could she possibly object to the marquess? Ralph, that was his name. He was sweet and gentle and kind, and there could be no conceivable objection to his person. And yet she did not want to marry him, and she knew the reason — he did not set her on fire. There was no warmth inside her when she looked at him. Not even when she had kissed him.

His poem! Perhaps his Latin verse, tucked away in a drawer of her desk, would engender the proper warmth in her. Sliding from the bed, she snatched up the candle and made her way in some excitement downstairs to the library, where the shadows danced about grotesquely. How odd the room looked, when so poorly illuminated! So alien and unlike its usual welcoming self. But she lit a candelabrum and sat down at her desk. Where was the poem? There it was. She began to read.

Almost at once, she saw the problem. As she sounded the words in her head, arranging them in what she hoped was the correct metre, it was not the marquess's voice she heard, or even her own — it was Bertram's. His clear tones filled her mind so that the marquess was driven out. All that remained was Bertram, and a Latin poem.

And there, deep inside her, was the warmth she sought. Even the thought of his voice made her smile and brought her great delight. What was it, this curious warmth, the fire that his kisses lit, the wonder of his touch? Then she remembered Walter and the way his face lit up when he spoke of Winnie… good heavens, was she in love with Bertram? Was that what was the matter with her?

But she had promised not to pursue him. She had given her solemn word and she would not break it, but she could not in all conscience marry the marquess while she was in love with another man. That was not fair to Ralph, not fair to herself and not fair to Bertram, who might one day come to love her, just as Walter had come to love Winnie. And just as Winnie had waited ten years for Walter, so Bea would wait for Bertram, without any real hope of success.

Still, she could wait… she could wait forever. She would dedicate her life to Latin and perhaps Bertram would one day turn to her in love, and perhaps he would not, but she would always be his friend.

Whatever happened with Bertram, however disappointed her parents might be, she could not marry the marquess. And with that thought, her confusion finally cleared. Blowing out all but her own candle, she returned on swift steps to her room, and calmly settled down to sleep.