2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

"A lady's worth is not determined by circumstance, but by how she carries herself in the face of it." – The Polite Companion: A Lady’s Guide to Social Grace

B eth stepped out of the carriage, the firm tap of her heels against the stone driveway a steady reminder to keep her composure. Behind her, Dora and the footman trailed in silence. She had kept a calm, resolute face for their sake, but as her eyes fell on the grand facade of her family home, a flutter stirred in her chest.

The house was the same—symmetrical brick walls, ivy curling over mullioned windows, the perfect picture of English refinement amidst the coastal beauty of Portugal. Solid, imposing, unchanging. Yet, standing before it now, something felt off. As if, after today’s encounter, nothing would ever be quite the same.

The butler opened the door, and she stepped into the foyer on the tips of her feet. Was there a worse kind of silence than inside a house where a sick person lived?

Jenkins cleared his throat. “Your father awaits you, Lady Beth.”

A wry smile tugged at her lips. Lady Beth. That’s what the staff had called her since she was a little girl—everyone’s princess. What use was that title now? All her life, she’d been labeled—a port trader’s daughter, an heiress, the future wife of a polished gentleman. But a winemaker’s wife? What did that even mean?

Surely, she wouldn’t have to follow through with this farce. Her father would see reason and release her from her vow. She could return to her routine, her life.

The steps creaked beneath her as she climbed, her slippers feeling heavier with every tread. Outside her father’s room, she paused, gathering herself. When she opened the door, the miasma of laudanum and sickness hit her like a wall.

Her father lay propped against a mound of pillows, his once-robust frame now frail beneath the heavy blankets. His sharp eyes turned to her immediately.

“Well? What did Sandeman say?”

Her mother stood abruptly, clutching her needlework to her chest. “Please tell me that uncouth brute realized he can never marry a jewel like you. That he sent you away after understanding he’s not fit to tread the same carpet as you.”

“Silence!” Her father coughed violently. “Let my little lady speak.”

Beth’s gaze flitted between them, and her chest ached. Her chin trembled as she stepped closer. Poor Father, ailing as he was, and here she stood, yearning for his protection. Needing him to say she didn’t have to go to the Douro. That no Scotsman would take his princess from him. That she had nothing to prove.

She swallowed hard, forcing calm into her voice. “Mr. Sandeman invited me to his property in the Douro Valley for the holidays. He believes it will be an opportunity to see if we... suit.”

The word suit drifted from her lips like a faint breeze, carrying an unspoken warmth that made her shiver. How could she possibly explain this to her dignified parents? Tell them about his eyes, watching her with that unsettling intensity, or his hands, caressing her feather before stealing it?

Her mother’s face flushed scarlet. “This is preposterous! He cannot mean to abscond with you into the wilderness. Really, John, this has gone far enough.”

“The Douro isn’t a wilderness these days,” her father rasped, his tone clipped. “The train reaches it in a few hours.”

Beth’s stomach sank. Was her father giving credence to this scheme?

“It’s Christmas. I don’t—”

“Must I remind you we reached this point because you failed to win Maxwell’s affection?” Her father’s voice rose, brittle with frustration. “If you had married him, Croft & Associates would be secure.”

Would he ever let her forget? Six years had passed since her brief engagement. She had been eighteen then, na?ve and enamored with the idea of marrying the dashing Mr. Griffin Maxwell. But she had barely known him before it all fell apart.

“Enough of this, John,” her mother interjected, her voice quivering. “Why don’t you sell the company? We could return to England. Surely, we could find her an impoverished aristocrat. Then she could have the grand marriage I always dreamed of for her.”

Her father slumped back into the mattress, his face pale with exertion. “Mr. Boyd Sandeman is her only chance.”

Beth didn’t like the finality in his tone.

“Stop saying that! I raised Elizabeth to be a duchess. Why is it so imperative she marry a nameless Scot?”

“Because she is no longer rich!” Her father’s voice cracked as a fit of coughing wracked his frame.

Beth gasped, clutching her throat as if the truth had struck her physically.

Her mother shrieked, her frame trembling. “You are old and speaking nonsense. Of course, she is—what—”

“Croft & Associates is bankrupt,” he rasped. “Marrying that uncouth Scot is her only chance.”

Her mother dropped into a chair, her face blank as she stared into the flowery wallpaper.

Bankrupt? Beth’s head swam, her limbs numb as she approached her father’s bedside and knelt.

“You had better prepare your luggage,” he said hoarsely. “The train may be faster than the diligence, but it still takes eight hours to reach Vila Nova de Régua.”

Her mother began wailing, rocking back and forth. “What if he ruins her? What if he robs her virtue and returns her in shame?”

“Mr. Sandeman said he wouldn’t,” Beth replied, the words escaping before she thought better of them. Why was she defending his honor? “He said that if such an improbable event occurred, he would marry me.”

Her father’s sharp gaze focused on her, clarity cutting through the haze of sickness. “Then, my princess, you have three days to be ruined.”