Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

When Monty next called at the Rectory, she suggested they walk in the orchard. They strolled in silence, Beatrice tense with dread at what she knew she must do.

"I've received a letter from my sister Isabella," Bea began, stalling.

"How do they fare in town?"

Bea had long ago told Monty about her family, and their present activities. Cautiously, on their long walks, she had shown him Sparcombe Hall from different perspectives, told him stories about growing up there, and together they had visited her mare Tulip at the stables.

"Well enough, I think. Bartlett is busy with politicking, Issy is bored of the social whirl, and father is restless. She begs me to join them for the balance of the season, to keep her company."

His voice was wooden. "Do you consider it?"

Bea did not answer, her gaze cast down at her boots as they walked. The swish of tall grass punctuated the soft birdsong, and the rustle of the breeze through the leaves and branches in the trees overhead.

"Why do I sense you have bad news to deliver, my love? "

"Please, do not call me so."

"Ah. Bad news indeed," he murmured, linking his hands behind his back and tucking his chin. They walked on, slowly, in silence, side by side until they neared the creek, its verges vivid with spring grasses. Bea's thoughts churned, and from Monty's manner, she knew his did too.

With a heavy sigh, Monty's steps slowed and stopped. She faced him, her throat tight and dry, while her eyes already burned with unshed tears. Her lower lip trembled, and she caught it between her teeth. Why was this so difficult, and so painful, when it was the right thing to do?

Monty gripped her shoulders, his dark gaze capturing hers, his look intent. "Do not go, darling Beatrice. Do not leave me now, when I have come to need you so."

She raised her gaze to his handsome face, letting herself soak up each beloved feature. His strong, angular jaw and straight as an arrow nose, his well-formed lips whose kisses she had grown to long for. And his now bright eyes, dark as earth, shadowed with memories, deep with intelligence and passion, shining with his love for her. Still she could not speak.

Monty's hands slipped from her shoulders down her arms until he clasped her hands in his, and he knelt upon the ground, heedless of his trousers or discomfort. "Do not go unless you allow me to accompany you." His hands squeezed hers and brought them to his lips. "As your betrothed. Marry me, Beatrice. Make me the happiest of men." He pressed kisses to her fingers, his gaze cast down.

An anguished sob tore from Beatrice's throat. She slid her hands from his firm grip, gasping. "Do not ask this of me. I cannot!"

He looked down, breathing hard, his jaw clenching. "How can you reject me when you know the affection and passion we share?"

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I need not tell you my feelings. You know me too well. But I must be certain I am free to make promises anew."

"You resolve to be true to that scoundrel, despite every negligent and heartless thing he has done!"

"I must know the truth! I cast no aspersions on your character. You are all…" She stopped.

"If he could not write to you five years ago with the truth, what makes you think he'll bother with your feelings now?"

Tears she could not hold back traced her cheeks, and she swiped at them angrily. She did not want to send him away. Yet she was determined.

"Tell me, Miss Witherspoon." His reversion to her formal name cut her. "The truth, in your heart. Could those letters, this rich correspondence spanning five long, constant years, have been written by that… that callous boy?" He paused, his chest rising and falling with the force of his feelings.

"I do not doubt you! I feel honour bound to hold to the promises I made. Monty, my heart beats just knowing you are near, that you hold me in such regard, that we could… we could dream of a future together."

"And yet." His nostrils flared, and his chin came up, his dark eyes suspiciously bright.

She nodded, meeting his heartfelt gaze, trying to convey without words the depth of her own affection and regard. "I must live with myself and the choices I make. I hope you can forgive me for any pain my decision causes you."

Monty gave her a stiff bow. "As you wish, ma'am." The movement of his throat as he swallowed thickly belied his self-possession, and her heart broke. He took several steps away, turning a hard shoulder to her. "I would admire your constancy, ma'am, if I did not believe you remain stubbornly blind to the facts, holding on to childish dreams when true happiness stands before you in flesh and blood."

Bea sucked in a breath, shocked at his sharp tongue. That old accusation! He knew how it bedevilled her .

"Forgive me for thinking you hypocritical, Miss Witherspoon, for professing to aspire to a true meeting of minds and joining of hearts over the artificiality and social formality of modern marriages… and yet clinging to a false idol - a promise made between two children, before they knew themselves, let alone each other."

"I do want that! You know in my heart that I do!"

"Do you?"

"You may believe as you wish, sir."

They stood stiffly, regarding each other, saying nothing. "I will leave you, ma'am. I know my impatience strains you. I promised to visit my brother, George. Now seems an opportune time." His gaze raked her, and with a stiff bow, he strode away.

"Bea, dearest!" Maggie hurried after Beatrice as she dashed up the stairs and into her room, slamming the door shut. Bea collapsed on the bed, her sobs muffled by the pillow, her heart aching as if she would never find happiness again.

Maggie sat beside her, gently placing her hand on Beatrice's shaking shoulders. "There, there, calm yourself."

Beatrice's tears flowed unrestrained until exhaustion silenced her. She rolled to face Maggie, her eyes red and swollen.

"You're a sight," Maggie said with affectionate concern, dabbing at Beatrice's tear-streaked face with a handkerchief. "I'll bring you some tea."

Bea lay still as death, staring forlornly at the ceiling of her guest bedroom. What had she done? She would have to leave now. She couldn't bear the villagers' whispers or their pity, assuming Monty had spurned her. Her only escape was to leave for town. Perhaps the bustling city would distract her from the ache in her heart.

Maggie returned with tea and toast, applying a cool cloth to Beatrice's forehead, offering comfort without words, understanding the depth of heartbreak all too well .

By dinner, Beatrice had composed herself enough to join the others. "I'm very sorry to cut our visit short," she explained. "Isabella is overwhelmed in London with father wanting to return early. It's all quite a mess, and they need me." Soon after, her nerves frayed, she claimed a head ache, and retreated to her room.

That night, alone in her room, Beatrice allowed herself to weep again, mourning the loss of Monty's touch and the future she feared they'd never have, until sleep mercifully ended her distress.

The following morning, Beatrice began packing her belongings, her movements rote. She was determined to leave for Sparcombe Hall in the afternoon, then to London the next day.

By afternoon, Maggie stood with her as Wells prepared the cart. "I've decided to go to town, but oh, Maggie, I fear I've made a grave error. I do love Monty," Beatrice confessed, her voice cracking.

Maggie squeezed her hand, her expression somber. "Time and distance might clear your heart, Bea. You'll find your way."

Beatrice arrived at Sparcombe Hall, her heart heavy and her mind swirling with doubt. As she passed through the bustling household, she reassured the servants with a calm she did not feel, insisting she would be staying just long enough to make arrangements for her travel to London.

In the stables, she received disappointing news—the smaller family coach was under repair, delaying her departure. "It'll be some weeks, Miss Beatrice," Carson, the head groom, informed her with a respectful tug at his forelock. Disheartened but resolved, Beatrice decided to book passage on the next stagecoach.

At the hall, Bea found among the accumulated mail a long-awaited letter from her Uncle Albert. How long had it languished here? The note was brief, with Uncle Albert apologizing for his delay and promising to attend to her query soon.

Disheartened by the lack of help, Bea managed her departure preparations, yet despite the bustle, she missed the companionship and comfort of either friends or family. The lack of distraction from her own thoughts left Beatrice too much time to reflect on her choices.

Had she made a mistake pushing Monty away? The more she pondered, the clearer it became: her actions were driven by a misguided sense of loyalty to Adam. Nothing she learned would change the truth. It was Montague with whom she had found the kind of connection she always desired.

She recognized her own naiveté and realized that no matter what she learned about Adam, her affections had irrevocably shifted towards Monty.

As she packed her belongings, Monty's words echoed in her mind, sharp reminders of the pain she had caused him. He had lashed out in hurt, yet his accusations held a mirror up to her own failings. The more difficult thing to reconcile was the fact she feared he spoke the truth.

She was indeed fickle, childish and fanciful. Or she had been. Though her correspondence with Monty had guided and inspired in her deeper thought and feeling as she grew from a girl to a woman, she had little life experience to cement the lessons, or to test her.

Bea decided she could no longer wait for external resolutions. In the quiet of her room, with the evening light fading, Beatrice confronted the truth she had been evading.

Determined to correct her course, Beatrice sat down at her desk pulled out a fresh parchment and sharpened her quill, dipping it in ink. Once again, she needed to bare her heart to Monty. At least she knew to address it to his brother in Monkford. She could only hope he was still there.