Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Bea walked to the village to post the letter herself. Though she would leave the next day for London, at least Monty would know her true feelings. She could only hope he would forgive her, in time.

She had written:

My Beloved Monty,

Every hour away from you deepens my understanding of our bond, and each moment of absence marks a grievous loss. I've been a fool for letting my fears and uncertainties dictate our fate, and for sending you away. For this, I beg your forgiveness.

Revisiting our letters has reaffirmed my desire for a union marked by mutual respect, deep affection, and undeniable passion. My only wish is for us to be together, if you still hold me in your heart.

Yours ever, Beatrice

En route to the post office, Bea's steps faltered as she passed the familiar sights of the White Stag Inn and the neighbouring bookseller, places laden with memories of Monty. Mr. Dalrymple, spotting her from his shop, called out a greeting.

"Miss Witherspoon! Enjoying Emma ?" he asked.

"Indeed, I am, though I've been busy of late. I've only just finished volume two," she said, lifting the marbled duodecimo from her deep pocket.

"Wonderful!" He glanced towards the inn. "I expect you are looking for the Commander?"

Bea's heart kicked her ribs with a powerful thump. Was Monty here? In Sparcombe Green?

"He is very hale, is he not? He stopped by this morning after visiting his brother in Monkford," the bookseller remarked, eyeing her curiously.

"Oh, he's back?" Bea's heart surged with hope. "Could you—would you give him this?" she implored, holding up the book.

"Of course, Miss."

"I hope he is still there." Beatrice followed him into his shop. "I'll just jot a quick note." She accepted a sharpened pencil and, with a trembling hand, quickly scrawled above her seal, Let this be the middle of our story, not the end. B . and tucked it between the pages of the volume. "There. I cannot thank you enough, sir."

As Bea walked on, her mind raced with possibilities. She might not need that stagecoach after all. But uncertainty lingered—was Monty truly here for her, or just passing through?

At the post office, she learned her servant had already collected the mail. With nothing else to do, she headed home, her future hanging in the balance.

When Bea arrived at Sparcombe Hall, the butler, Chalmers, greeted her, accepting her shawl and bonnet. "Is your trunk ready to be brought down, Miss?"

"Not yet, Chalmers." She sifted through the letters on the library table, stopping at one addressed to her. It was from Lady Felicity! What could she have to say?

It revealed a shocking truth: Adam had not been captured but remained in Portugal by choice, under circumstances dishonourable enough to warrant a pretence of death to spare their mother's feelings. She knew!

Bea leafed through the stack of letters and again stopped when she recognized her uncle's bold, jagged script. This letter from the Admiralty office, much longer, confirmed the worst about Adam, and his impending court-marshal, and contrasting it with unreserved praise for Montague's exemplary naval service.

It was all true. Her fears were for naught!

Bea collapsed into the chair behind the desk, the letter falling from her hand to the messy pile as she set her head in her hands with a groan of despair.

Letters cascaded to the floor. As she picked them up another letter caught her eye—this hand, more known, more beloved, from Monty himself. When did he write this? There was no post mark. Had he sent a dispatch just this morning while she was out? Desperately, she ripped it open and read.

Dear Beatrice,

Your absence pains me deeply, and each day without you is a burden too heavy to bear.

My heart remains yours, irrevocably so. I can only pray that you find the assurances you need to reconsider my troth with confidence.

I must express my regret for words spoken in haste and in pain. Visiting George has calmed me. Since our last parting, I have also spoken with my uncle, Admiral Croft.

I find myself at a crossroads, with an opportunity to command a survey frigate bound for India—a chance to see the world. Yet without you, it holds no allure. Or we could settle on my Devon estate.

Should you decline, I will accept your decision with a heavy heart, cherishing the memories of our shared dreams and the profound connection we once enjoyed, and embark alone.

I will wait at the White Swan Inn for two days in hopes of your reply.

Yours forevermore,

Montague

Monty still wanted her!

Tears streaming from her eyes, clutching Monty's heartfelt plea to her thundering breast, Bea flew through the hall, out the front door and down the steps.

"Miss Beatrice? Your shawl, Miss!" Chalmers called as she passed.

There was no time to spare. She must not lose him. She tore across the damp lawn and along the trail through the trees that met the bridal path past Farmer Wilson's pasture.

As she ran toward the village, the pastoral green fields dotted with white sheep blurred, her focus solely on the beloved figure she hoped to find still at the White Stag Inn.

When she spied the tall, dignified silhouette of the man in naval uniform ahead on the bridal path, striding in her direction, she skidded to a halt, her heart pounding in her throat.

He ran to her, his arms enveloping her in a strong embrace that spoke of promises kept and new beginnings. "Beatrice!" he gasped, and she melted into arms. She nearly swooned as his familiar fresh masculine scent filled her, with both desire, and a deep sense of belonging and safety.

"Monty, forgive me," she cried .

Cradling her face between his hands, Monty murmured, "Darling, Bea." Covering her mouth with his own, his kiss was consuming, hungry, plundering, and she surrendered to it, and to him.

When the desperate joy of their kisses grew heated, their touches ravenous and injudicious, they pulled apart, panting, their eyes shining and wild. "This will not do, my darling. We cannot make love outdoors," he chuckled, glancing towards the curious sheep.

"Come home with me, Monty," she murmured, leading him towards Sparcombe Hall, determined to never again let go. They walked slowly, hand in hand, stopping occasionally for kisses that promised a future filled with love and passion.

Arriving back at the Hall, Beatrice led Monty through the garden and into the kitchen door. "Should I not be having a word with your father first?" Monty teased lightly.

"That can come later," she whispered, guiding him up the servant's stairs.

"What now?" he asked as they sneaked through the corridors to her room

"I expect you'll have to show me, my love." Locking the door behind them, they embraced their future together, unburdened by past misunderstandings and focused only on the love they shared.

An hour or two later, when daylight had faded to soft mauve through her bedroom windows, the sound of carriage wheels crunching across the forecourt woke the lovers. Beatrice's eyes flew open as Monty's grip on her smooth side tensed.

"Hurry! Everyone will be distracted," she whispered as they dressed quickly, smoothing each other into presentability. Bea wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and they slipped silently back down the servants stairs, out the kitchen door from whence they'd come, ducking through the rose garden and hiding behind a hedge.

They watched Bea's family dismount from the carriage, welcomed and assisted by Chalmers and the footmen, as two upstairs maids bustled the three sleepy children off to bed. Bea squeezed Monty's hand, and they held their breaths, waiting.

Once the coast was clear, they entered the house.

Feigning surprise, Bea greeted her unexpectedly returned family. "My goodness! Everyone has come home whilst we were in the village."

"Hello, Bea," called Issy, setting down her sherry glass and flying to embrace her sister.

Introductions followed, and Monty was welcomed with a whiskey, which he tossed back. Beatrice's father squinted at Monty, asking, "This isn't that boy you were always on about, is it, Bea?"

"Oh, no, Father," Bea replied quickly, catching Monty's gaze. "That was a childish fancy, long forgotten."

Isabella, curious, asked how they met.

"Oh, we've known each other for ages. Monty's brother George is rector of Monkford, an old school friend of Thomas's from Oxford, you know." Bea added, "We were visiting the Rectory all afternoon, and Monty escorted me home. He stays at the White Stag."

"You do look well together," Issy observed, inviting Monty to stay for a cold supper, while ringing for Mrs. Tate.

After supper, Monty regaled his eager audience with tales of his Mediterranean exploits, and later he found a quiet moment to request a private word with Lord Witherspoon, as Issy shot meaningful looks at Bea.

Bea felt a deep contentment with her loved ones around her, thrilled at the prospect of welcoming Monty into her family. Her heart was full, her future with Monty bright.