Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

“ I ought to take the wretched man to court,” Horatio snarled, limping up and down the length of the dining room. “How dare he? How dare he? I ought to sue him for slander. Perhaps the Marquess will.”

“One can only sue for slander if the accusations are untrue, Papa,” Beatrice remarked.

Her father shot her an aggravated look, and she fell silent. It seemed that her father—likely all of her family, in fact—had somehow surmised that she had been involved in the Marquess’s downfall.

However, nobody could work out how . But there would be talk about it, no doubt. A lady’s reputation was a fragile thing, like a figurine made of glass. Even if it did not take a tumble and shatter into a million pieces, a knock or a crack could slough off an arm or a head, and the figurine would be ruined anyway.

Horatio shot her a glare. “My question is, Beatrice, how did that man come to meddle in our business? Why should he care who you marry and who the Marquess marries?”

“Perhaps he thought it was his duty,” Beatrice suggested.

That was a weak suggestion and not one that could ever be applied to the Duke. Nobody deigned to respond.

“Let us look at it this way, Father,” John piped up a little worriedly.

Beatrice’s younger brother had not dared to speak much since they had returned from the church, aside from warning Beatrice as she came inside that their parents were in a bad mood and that she ought to have stayed at Anna’s home a little longer. It had been, of course, too late for warnings.

“The Duke saved Beatrice from quite a bad match. It’s generally considered that what he said about the Marquess was true, and so we should be glad that Beatrice did not marry him, after all.”

John paused, glancing around, no doubt taking in Helena’s blank face and Horatio’s livid one.

“We… We are glad, aren’t we?” he ventured, blinking uncertainly.

Beatrice felt a stab of pity for him.

John was barely fourteen and quiet for his age. He was thin, gawky, in the midst of a growth spurt that left him stretched out like a piece of taffy, and was afflicted with the same red hair and spectacles as his sister. He was not talkative, even before Jane’s death, and lately, he had retreated into himself even more.

With Horatio wrapped up in their disastrous finances, and Helena paralyzed under the weight of her own grief, Beatrice often felt that nobody was able to think or care for John properly, except for herself.

And so, she reached out and took his hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Of course, we are all glad that I did not marry the Marquess,” she lied smoothly. “Papa is only worried about the money issue, that’s all. I have hardly any dowry, but the Marquess was willing to take me in spite of it, and he was going to invest heavily in Papa’s businesses. It would have been a good thing for us all, and would have paid for your education.”

She wished she had not said that last part.

John flinched at the mention of his education, glancing nervously at his father. “Does… does that mean I am not going to university, then, Papa?”

“You’re too young to think of university yet,” Beatrice said before Horatio could think of anything to say. “This will all be forgotten soon enough, don’t you worry.”

“Ha!” Horatio snapped, still pacing up and down.

His limp was becoming more pronounced, and his face was gray. It would not be long before he tired and he was reduced to sitting in his armchair for a day or two, impotently raging at the world in the midst of his agony.

“We shall have to find Beatrice another match—any match—as soon as we can, let me tell you. We cannot afford to be picky anymore.”

“Why don’t you sit down, Papa,” Beatrice said, a trifle desperately. “Your gout will be?—”

“Enough about my gout! None of you seem to understand the danger of this—none of you. We are ruined, all of us. The Marquess will remain a rich man, so he will likely be able to buy his way back into Society. In five or six years, nobody will remember his scandal. But for us, we are ruined. We have no money, and since it was well-known that the Marquess was going to invest in my businesses, nobody would want to follow in his footsteps and try again. John is too young to do much, Jane is dead, and Beatrice—well, who would ever take her now?”

There was a heavy silence after that, Horatio’s words ringing in the air.

Beatrice felt as though she were frozen in her seat. She was still holding John’s hand, his fingers twitching uncomfortably in her grip. She was squeezing too hard, and she forced herself to let go, folding her hands in her lap.

Helena seemed to wake up from her reverie, glancing between her middle child and her husband.

“That was unkind, Horatio,” she said, slowly and clearly. “Beatrice has had a difficult day, too.”

He snorted. “Oh? So difficult that she went back to her friend’s house for tea. If Anna was any sort of friend at all, she might have tried to find somebody for Beatrice to marry.”

Beatrice flinched. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, to inform her father that Anna was a true friend who would never try and force her into marriage with anyone, and anyway, she was too preoccupied with a much-deserved romance. Anna was in love for the first time, and what sort of friend would want her to snap out of her blissful new reality and attend to more menial matters?

“It is not Anna’s responsibility to find Beatrice a husband,” Helena said coolly.

“No,” Horatio snapped. “It is ours. And who will marry her now, after this… this spinsterish scandal! Such a scandal, and she is not even married at the end of it! In fact, she is further away from marrying now than she had ever been. Oh, and have I mentioned that we are ruined? Nothing can save us. I wonder if the infamous Duke Blackheart cares much about that as he sips his whiskey and congratulates himself on his fine deeds. No, I imagine that he does not. I hope you are happy with your escape, Beatrice, as you will likely be a spinster for the rest of your life now.”

John spoke up. “Is that really the worst thing in the world, Father? Why can Beatrice not be a spinster, if it makes her happy?”

“Because it will make the rest of us very, very miserable,” Horatio shot back. “Because now that Jane is gone, Beatrice is— was— our last hope at changing our fortunes. Nobody will touch her now any more than they would spoiled goods.”

Beatrice flinched at that.

Helena drew herself up in indignation. “Your daughter is not spoiled goods, Horatio! How dare you? She is not a cut of rotten meat or a bruised apple, or however else you might choose to describe her! She is our daughter, and every bit as much of a victim as we are. Do you think she conspired to bring about all of this?”

The guilt stabbed deep, constricting Beatrice’s chest.

Undeterred, Horatio shouted right back, “I am not saying that I think that way, Helena! I am saying that this is how Society thinks, and if you believe we can simply ignore what Society thinks and go on our way, well then, I have some unpleasant news for you.”

She had heard enough. Quietly and carefully, Beatrice got to her feet and left the drawing room. Nobody seemed to notice.

Or so she thought.

“Beatrice, wait a moment.”

She paused at her brother’s voice, one foot on the bottom step of the staircase. She twisted around to look at him, fighting to keep her composure.

John was looking at her anxiously, twisting his hands together and biting his lower lip.

“Father didn’t mean any of that,” he said, at last. “He’s just frightened, I think. He’s worried about all of us, and our fortunes. He spoke to me about my education before, and how… how a worthwhile education is never cheap. He worries about you , Beatrice, and what will happen to you once he is gone.”

She bit her lip.

Does Papa think that he is the only one who has thought of this?

“This isn’t your concern, John,” she said. “You should be enjoying your youth, not worrying about this kind of nonsense.”

He let out a brittle laugh. “How can I not worry? Beatrice, I’m not sure you have understood the enormity of what has happened today. You’ve had such a narrow escape. If you married that man…”

Despite it all, Beatrice had to bite back a smile.

“I can assure you, John,” she said somberly, “it has occurred to me.”

John fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot.

“I wish I were older,” he blurted out. “If I were older, I could earn money myself or perhaps marry a rich woman. Then we’d all be saved.”

She chuckled. “You want to marry a rich woman?”

“I’m sure I could manage it,” he shot back defensively.

Beatrice took a step closer, wrapping her arms around her younger brother. “It’s alright, John. This isn’t your mess to unravel, I promise. Everything will be just fine, believe me. Things work out in the end, don’t they?”

“You said the same thing about Jane,” John said, his voice muffled against her shoulder. “You said that women give birth all the time, and Jane was strong. You said she would be fine.”

Beatrice stiffened, painful emotion welling up inside her. She wanted to scream, cry, laugh hysterically, throw herself on the stone flags in the hallway and flail around like a child in the grip of a pointless tantrum.

He’s right, though. That is exactly what you said.

She withdrew, and John avoided her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have said that. But if I were older, I would marry a rich woman and save us all. After all, Jane married a rich man to save us. If I’d been the older one, I would never have died in childbirth, and you and Jane could have been free to do as you like.”

Beatrice breathed in deeply through her nose, a slow, calming breath. She could sob as much as she liked once she was safe in her room, but for now, she had to keep her composure.

“You can’t possibly say that this is your fault for not being born first,” she said brusquely, forcing a smile. “I don’t think Jane would want to see us so maudlin, do you? Come on, let’s see that smile. A proper one.”

John managed a watery smile.

“There we go. Now, John, I can’t give you the details, but I can assure you that I have a rather excellent plan for getting us all out of this scrape. Soon enough, our reputations will be restored—or rather, as restored as they are going to be—and our finances will improve remarkably. I’ll have enough money for your education, and enough to pay off Papa’s debts.”

John eyed her disbelievingly. “Really? But how…”

Beatrice held up a finger. “Ah-ah-ah. All will be revealed. In the meantime, I do have a task for you. I’m going to write two letters, and I want you to hand-deliver them for me. It’s very important that each letter reaches its destination before tonight. And I don’t want you to tell Papa, do you understand? Or Mama. Or anyone, for that matter.”

John swallowed, clearly interested despite himself. “Well, alright. What’s in the letters?”

“None of your business,” Beatrice responded, tapping a finger on the tip of his nose.

“At the very least, tell me where the letters are going.”

She paused, half turned towards the staircase again.

“One letter is going to Anna,” she responded. “And the other… I want you to take the other to the Duke of Blackwood.”

Hurrying upstairs, Beatrice glanced over her shoulder to make sure that she was not being followed. She wouldn’t put it past John to come charging after her, loudly demanding answers. He was not, but the sound of her parents’ argument drifted up to her.

Her parents would not be on speaking terms for a few days after this, she guessed.

This issue would not be resolved anytime soon. In fact, time would only make things worse. For now, the ton was excitedly talking about the Marquess himself, along with his sins, but the gossips would soon tire of that and would turn their attention to the family that was so keen to unite with him.

Beatrice was not foolish enough to believe that she would emerge unscathed. Her reputation was in tatters, even if it seemed whole at the moment.

Shutting herself in her bedroom—which was icy cold, since they had decided not to bother with fires in the upper rooms of the house because of the cost of firewood—Beatrice darted to her writing dress. Her throat was still tight with emotion, tears bubbling just below the surface, but she knew that if she shed tears right now, she would spend the rest of the evening sprawled on her bed, sobbing.

There simply wasn’t time for such nonsense. She could always cry later.

Pulling out a piece of paper, she began to scribble.

Dearest Anna,

I need your help, most urgently. I must meet with the Duke of Blackwood, and the sooner, the better.

I know where he lives, but I have no way of getting there without being noticed. Might I borrow your carriage? If so, could you send the carriage to pick me up at eleven o’clock tonight?

And, my dear friend, I know that you will want to accompany me, but I must make this trip alone. Please, Anna, I need your help. You do not need to respond to this note, only send the carriage. I promise I will be alright and tell you everything as soon as I can. Thank you.

Your worried friend,

Beatrice.

Letting out a long sigh, Beatrice folded the paper into a neat square and marked it with a curling, looping initial: A . It was how they had correspondence for years, and Anna would know immediately who had sent the letter and just how urgent it was.

Steeling herself, Beatrice withdrew a second piece of paper and began to write a new letter, much more carefully this time.

To His Grace, the Duke of Blackwood,

I am coming. I shall be there after eleven o’clock.

Miss Haversham.