Chapter Three

Earlier that morning, at Cloverdale House, on Abbotsbury Road, London…

B ea opened the drawer of her dressing table and retrieved her mother’s latest letter. Tattered from the many times Bea had read it, it showed as much wear as her nerves.

Singapore, March 11, 1819.

Dearest Beatrice,

We left the port of Singapore, and hearts and sails set toward home. It is with a sentiment most earnest that I entertain the anticipation of beholding you, not merely as the daughter we left behind but as a lady ensconced in the felicitous state of matrimony. Should this expectation be greeted by disappointment, and you find yourself still unattached, pray and allow no disquiet to trouble your heart. Your father, in his boundless wisdom and regard for your future felicity, has pledged his most vigorous endeavors to secure a match of unimpeachable nobility and suitability for you.

With the fullness of time marching inexorably forward, it behooves us to remember that the season for securing such advantageous connections is fleeting. A young lady of virtues and education must seek a husband who both appreciates her merits and can elevate her station. Thus, it is with a mother’s urgency and concern that I impress upon you the gravity of this period in your life. I urge you to apply yourself with renewed vigor to this most critical of pursuits so that you might soon grace us with the joyous tidings of an engagement.

I remain, with the sincere expectations for your imminent success,

Your mother,

Lady Claudia Wetherby

No love. No missing her. Just a slur of expectations wrapped in a neat little letter that read more like a warning between the lines despite the seemingly loving platitudes. Her mother’s missive was clear: Marry or I’ll see to it when I return .

A knock.

“Bea, are you there?” Pippa peeked into Bea’s chamber from behind the door.

“Come in!” But when Bea saw Pippa, her breath hitched. “You’re wearing a veil!”

In nothing but her white muslin nightgown and a bridal veil, Pippa swayed into the room as if carried by a cloud until she stopped in front of Bea. She pushed her spectacles up her nose and beamed. “What do you think?”

Bea tapped her index finger on her mouth and tried to suppress a chuckle. Although Pippa was all grown up, this was rather like in their childhood when they’d wear a crochet tablecloth over their heads and would dance like brides with each other. That had been pretend play, but this was real. Bea’s smile gave way to a heaviness in her heart. In only a few days, Pippa would be Mrs. Folsham and move to the townhouse near Nick’s practice. She’d never storm into Bea’s chamber in her nightgown again; she’d be all grown up and Bea would be alone.

“So the stitching of the crochet hem is lovely, the right shade to complement your complexion,” Bea started. Pippa twirled in her nightgown as if it were the finest wedding dress. “But the cinching at the waist of the dress needs work.” Bea gave Pippa’s side a friendly pinch through the nightgown just like she had done when they were little girls. They both burst into laughter at Pippa’s ridiculous dress and then Bea sighed. “It’s a lovely veil, dear cousin. You’ll be such a beautiful bride.”

Pippa dropped her hands to the sides, but Bea didn’t want her troubles to cast a shadow over Pippa’s happiness and gave her a hug. “I’ll move out. I’ve overstayed my welcome. You have plans for Cloverdale House as a rehabilitation center and you’re readying your new home with Nick.”

Her cousin tore herself from her arms and took a wide step back. “Where would you go? I didn’t plan to do anything with your chambers. You’re welcome as long as you like.” But Pippa’s voice fell as if she realized what she’d said. There’d always be room for the former diamond of the first water who’d been too picky to catch a husband.

“It’s all here in Mother’s letter. I need a husband to be free from the expectation—”

“But you never wanted your inheritance to fall into the hands of a gentleman of the Ton. You said they’d probably gamble it all away.” Pippa’s protest rang true. Most men—especially those without wealth of their own whom she’d met in the Ton expected to gain their brides’ fortunes. For Bea, that meant losing her independence in exchange for a husband and a life of social pressure among the Ton, not quite a fair exchange in either of their opinions. She sighed.

“It’s rather morbid, isn’t it? As a lady of station, I have to write my life over to a man to seek freedom, and thus exchange autonomy for something I can’t be sure I understand or want.”

“Marriage, you mean? How could you not want it?” It was everything they’d been raised to pursue as high-ranking ladies.

“Oh, Pippa! None of the men I’ve come to know at the balls shall control my life; I want to take charge of myself.”

Pippa narrowed her gaze and Bea thought about her mother’s expectations. She’d disappoint her even though she’d been a diamond of the first water at every ball—none of which her mother ever saw anyway because she’d been away.

The letter had been sent nearly five months ago. It could be weeks, or perhaps mere days before her parents arrived in London. Bea could not tell how much time she had left before her parents would assign her a husband. If she wanted to have any say in the husband she’d have to have, Bea had to find one posthaste.

Bea inhaled and thought about who she knew, but not a single man in the ballroom of the previous night caught her eye. The most common trait of the men in attendance at this most recent ball at the Langleys was voyeurism and gloating.

“You know,” Pippa started, speaking slowly and enunciating every word as if she’d formulated each as it had come to her, “I unleashed quite a grand scandal at Violet’s ball last night. You rather relished staging the coup with Alfie, didn’t you?” Bea bit her lip as bile rose to her throat at the memories. The supposed “nobility” had systematically singled Pippa out at balls and set her traps with folded-over carpet corners, so she’d trip. Those allegedly coveted “gentlemen” of the Ton had stepped out of the way when Pippa had stumbled. The ladies had been anything but ladylike in requesting the music to stop when Pippa made a mistake, adding emphasis to her embarrassment. Then Nick had seen her—truly seen her, the brilliant, beautiful woman that Bea knew—and he’d appreciated her. Then he fell in love with her and was going to be her husband. Together they’d do more for society—rich and poor—than the supposedly highborn “best people” of the Ton.

“After all these years in which you stood by me when I was mocked, hazed, and even cruelly excluded from society because of my clumsiness—due to my poor vision—you were always there. And if it weren’t for your help, I couldn’t have gotten engaged to Nick.”

“You could have eloped.”

Pippa cocked her head. “I’d never want to marry without you by my side.”

The irony wasn’t lost on Bea. The oculist had seen Pippa for who she was and had fixed her vision with mere spectacles. But he’d also magnified the Ton’s cruelty in Bea’s eyes. Nick was a contrast to those self-indulgent gentlemen who were anything but gentle in manners to Pippa.

Even though they were always kind to Bea, their hypocrisy was not lost on her. What if she had a double chin one day, grew round with a child, and developed frown lines on her forehead? She wanted a man who loved her for more than her appearance, not one who’d discard her if—or more likely, when—her beauty faded.

Especially not when she always had an outbreak of what Mother called “the beast” looming under her skin. Unexpected, hard to control, and unsightly. It was her fatal flaw, and no one knew about it. Instead, they only saw the beautiful Bea. They didn’t know that she often didn’t attend balls, not out of pettiness but because Mother made her hide until “the beast” subsided and her skin was once again flawless in others’ eyes.

“You could be so beautiful if you just controlled the red-hot beast within,” Mother had always said. Never—not once—had she offered help to soothe Bea’s itchy skin or suggested a hug to support her while she healed. It had always been a shameful affront to Mother’s social sensibilities to have a daughter who could be “so pretty if it weren’t for ‘the beast’.” But Bea had never learned how to control the beast and earn her mother’s affection. It just overcame her, and she didn’t even know when it loomed under her skin. For as long as she could think, she’d sometimes wake up, face reddened with bumps, and her hair looking like straw atop a feisty strawberry. And then her mother would lock her up in her bedchamber until the outbreak subsided. It usually took almost a fortnight.

Even before her debut season, missing so many social events was an inexcusable offense to Society, and her mother couldn’t bear the pain of watching “the beast wallow in self-pity,” so she joined her father on his diplomatic mission in Southeast Asia.

And Bea had lost all interest in the Ton.

She didn’t want to be the queen at a ball where guests considered shaming her beloved cousin a sport.

Nor did she want to dance with any of the men, first sons or not, who put a coat hanger by the door to look like a butler so that Pippa would take her leave from an object, in front of everyone. And never ever—Bea growled like an angry cat at the thought—would she marry any of them.

“I have certain criteria for a husband; I won’t just pick anyone.” Bea plopped on her bed and folded her hands as if the decision had been made. She’d get married and she knew exactly what the groom would be like. The only question remained as to the identity of her future husband. Didn’t that make perfect sense?

Pippa crossed her arms and shook her head as if her veil were an extension of her long blond hair. “Pray tell me the criteria, please! I must hear them.”

“So, number one, he has to love me.”

“Aha!”

“This is non-negotiable,” Bea added for good measure, unsure what her cousin’s knowing smirk meant in response to this self-explanatory element. She’d grown up scalded by her mother and envied by everyone else’s mothers. Bea had never had love, the unconditional kind from the books and yet, that was what she wanted.

“What’s number two?” Pippa gave her such a stern look that Bea thought her mother was in the room.

“Number two, he mustn’t be an English aristocrat.”

“What?”

“Nick isn’t!”

“No, but he’s a doctor!”

Bea threw her arms in the air as if that said everything… but she truly hadn’t said much at all. Her determination not to marry an aristocrat stemmed from a deeper, more personal motive. She wanted to spite her mother and the other matrons who insisted that a good match was the only way she could have value in Society—as if she had nothing else to offer but her aristocratic womb. Her mother’s relentless pressure to conform to those expectations had fueled a deep resentment within Bea. Defying them on this point felt important.

“I’m afraid to ask number three now,” Pippa said.

“I want passion. Not just stolen kisses, flowers, and dances at balls with a beau of the Ton. I want toe-curling, hair-raising, scream-out-loud pleasure.” Bea swallowed and waited for Pippa’s reaction.

“Is this because of what Violet said Henry did to her?”

“No.” Yes, of course it is! How else could I know any of this? Their friend Violet, now the Countess of Langley, had told the two young debutantes about the benefits of matrimony. “That’s what I want—not the dull marriages where love is replaced by suitability, lust by companionship, and passion by quick releases. I want more than women of our station usually get.” She sighed.

Pippa nodded. “That’s the best of the three reasons.”

“It is?”

Pippa shrugged. “When you know, you know. It’ll take your breath away, make your heart race, your… ahem … toes curl. So, yes.”

“Do you have that with Nick?”

Pippa nodded and took the pins from her veil. Then she carefully removed it and held it between her hands. “And I hope you’ll find someone who can fulfill all of your criteria. When you do, this will be reserved for you.” Pippa held the veil to Bea’s hair and Bea gasped.

She held the sheer fabric up and turned her head to see how long it draped over her back. It was lovely, oh so pretty. Bea sighed, dramatically.

“What is it, Bea? What’s wrong?”

“Oh Pippa, honestly. Though it’s lonely at times, at least while my parents are away, I am free, for a bit, and can act of my own accord. Once they return, Mother is certain to persuade Father that I should marry before I turn two and twenty.” Bea didn’t dare think about the matches she might be forced into.

“Your time will come Bea, and you too will find your perfect love,” Pippa replied in a singsong voice.

“But first, you will have a lovely wedding, Pippa,” Bea said, though when she turned around, Pippa had already left the room, the door still open to the hall, giving Bea the chance to admire herself with the veil just a little longer.

Truth be told, she didn’t need any of the pomp and circumstance of a long courtship and elegant balls to announce an engagement. She’d much rather have the sort of love where the man of her dreams couldn’t keep his hands off her, and his kisses made her shudder with pleasure and the need for more.

And she was running out of time to find such a man if he existed outside of her dreams indeed. As soon as her parents returned, well, it was best not to think about it.

Bea eyed herself in her dressing mirror and shuffled on her seat, reminding herself of her goal of finding a husband before her parents returned from Singapore, where her father was a diplomat.

She knew his mission involved extensive negotiations with local leaders and coordination with colonial administrators to secure British influence in the newly established colony, and wasn’t resentful at all. Her mother had gone with him this time, and she often sent letters and even the newest atlas that finally showed Singapore as a founded state in February. They’d been gone since Bea was sixteen; she hadn’t seen them for over three years. Which meant her mother hadn’t seen Bea reject twenty-four suitors from the finest families in her first season the year before. But Bea was also aware of the truth.

Her mother had no idea how disinterested Bea had become in the Ton, and the season.

Bea exhaled and looked in the mirror only to see her mother’s eyes staring back at her. The same cool scrutiny and strict expectations shot at her.

She walked over to her escritoire, where she kept her stationery, ink, and atlas. She flipped through the pages and found Singapore. Her history books and atlases were friendly companions when Bea was locked away with the vicious red rash—the one they called the beast. She’d filled her mind with images of places she longed to visit and the various conflicts of other nations.

Whenever she could find descriptions of disputes, she studied their interests. Father dismissed her as na?ve for even considering the opposing views to British imperial interests. “It’s not a matter for girls to think about,” he would say. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about politics and diplomacy.” Meanwhile, her mother told her she was developing a double chin from studying the books and maps for too long, or developing frown lines on her forehead when she thought too hard.

Bea knew her time at Cousin Pippa’s was growing short. It had been wonderful. She was able to read and study and always enjoyed hearing the latest opinions on matters that the papers only rudimentarily reported on.

When her parents had set sail, Bea had moved to Cloverdale House to live with Cousin Pippa and her father, Lord William Pemberton, the Duke of Sussex. And Bea had been happy there. The large estate was surrounded by beautiful gardens that had been opened up as a park for the public. It was an idyllic setting.

Bea swallowed a lump. She wasn’t usually so down. But now that Pippa was getting married and planned to convert the estate into a rehabilitation center, Bea had to find somewhere else to live. She didn’t want to get in the way of the newlyweds or become a permanent nuisance for the patients, once the rehabilitation center opened.

All things considered, Bea had been a house guest for too long. Since her parents had left, three seasons had come and gone, and there hadn’t been a single suitor that actually stirred anything within her heart.

Not that there hadn’t been suitors. As those closest to her liked to remind her, there’d been twenty-four of record. They had all blended into a blur of uninteresting candidates her mother would approve of. None of them captured Bea’s interest, much less her heart. There was simply nothing to recommend them to her. No wit. No intelligence. No spark.

None of them had been worth even the grace of a courtship. First sons, second sons, titles and riches that would make any woman swoon at their mention alone, in combination with the castles, estates, and promises of a lifetime in society they offered—all left Bea cold. She didn’t want any of it, because she already had it. What she didn’t have was true love and the tingling that Violet had when she spoke about her husband, Henry, Earl of Langley.

So, where would she get a husband from before her parents returned?

One who’d satisfy criteria one and two?

The handsome apothecary came to mind, Alfie Collins. Someone like that would be… oh, Bea sighed from deep within.

She’d ask Violet for ideas. If anyone knew how to orchestrate a coup d’état , it was Violet, the newly minted Countess of Langley.