Chapter 9

“Wherein the past is stirred up.”

25 th November 1820.

Bea moved through the huge attic room, hugging her shawl tighter around her. It was freezing up here, but they had found a few treasures she was so delighted with, it was worth the time in the cold.

“There are paintings over here, my lady,” Rachel called. “Oh, come and look. This must be your husband’s mama.”

Bea hurried over to where Rachel was uncovering a stack of paintings, hefting a dusty Holland cover aside.

“Oh,” Bea said, her hand covering her heart as she looked at the lovely portrait. The woman was beautiful, and so very young, making her shiver with some emotion she could not decipher.

“Oh, and this must be his father,” Rachel exclaimed. “Look! I’d think it were him if not for the style of his clothes.”

Bea turned, gasping as she saw what Rachel meant. The man was handsome, with a wicked glint of amusement in his dark blue eyes, his lips curved upwards a little, as if he knew a splendid joke and was only waiting for the right moment to share it with you.

“Shall we take them down?” Rachel asked, admiring the portraits. “They’d look lovely downstairs in your parlour.”

Bea nodded, for Rachel was right. “They would, but I shan’t put them up yet. I think I had better ask Rutherford first. They are probably up here for a reason. I do not wish to cause him any unhappiness if seeing them causes him pain. You said Justin was fifteen when he killed himself?” Bea asked, reaching out to touch the painting of his father.

The painting was so exquisitely done that Bea felt she could really touch the softness of his golden hair, a little surprised when her fingers met canvas and cold paint.

“Yes, that’s right. Bankrupt he was, debts up to his ears. He weren’t much older than Rutherford is now, I reckon. His lordship, your husband that is, took it hard, from what John said.”

Bea considered what it must have been like to have no memory of his mother, and then for his father to desert him, leaving him burdened with debts he could never pay.

“Leave them here,” she said suddenly. “I must speak with Rutherford first. If he wishes them to remain here, then they shall.”

“Very well,” Rachel said with a shrug. “What about this? It’s pretty.”

Bea nodded as she regarded the little landscape of horses against a wintery sky. “Yes, that can come down, and the chairs we found. I think that’s all for now, Rachel, we’ll look at the others another day. I’m frozen and I’m sure you must be too. I think it’s time for tea.”

Rachel nodded, as eager as Bea to escape the cold.

Bea made her way downstairs, pleased to enter her parlour and find a cheery fire blazing. She stood with her hands outstretched for a moment before she heard voices outside in the garden. Curious, Bea went to the window and looked out, smiling as she watched Justin in conversation with one of the workmen. The man nodded and tugged his cap before striding off and Justin looked up at the house. Bea raised her hand, waving at him.

Her heart gave a silly little skip in her heart as he mirrored her action, waving back. Impulsively, Bea gestured to him, telling him to come.

His grin widened, and he saluted her smartly before he walked around the house, making her laugh. Bea returned to her position by the fire as she waited for him, warming her hands, her pulse suddenly rapid at the notion she would see him any moment. Foolishness, she told herself. They breakfasted together most every morning and dined three times a week, too. Justin had kept his word and was a charming companion, one she delighted in, and trusted too, for he never flirted or pushed for more than she had offered him.

She had wondered if perhaps he did not see her as a woman any longer, if perhaps he did not find her alluring and so it was easy to act as though she were indeed his sister. But then she would catch a look in his eyes, something hot and dark that would make her stomach clench and her heart thud as her nerves ran riot. Not that he ever acted upon those hungry looks.

On the nights when she didn’t eat with him, Bea took her meals in her room, and with each day that passed, she hated those lonely evenings more. Tonight was one of those nights, when she would have to eat alone, without his lively conversation, without the pleasure of his company.

The door opened, and Bea smiled as Justin came in, crossing the room towards her.

“My lady,” he said, bowing formally, though a twinkle lurked in his eyes. “You commanded my presence.”

“Did I?” Bea said, laughing. “I beg your pardon, I did not mean to do so. I only thought you looked cold and wondered if you might like to take tea with me.”

An expression of genuine pleasure crossed his face. “I should be delighted to. Thank you.”

Bea nodded, captured by the look in his eyes. She could not look away, caught in the deep blue of his gaze, and found herself swallowing anxiously. The door opened and Bea let out a breath, relieved as a footman carried in the tea tray. He set it down on the table beside Bea’s chair and she dismissed the man, settling herself down.

Justin sat opposite her, reclining elegantly as always, his gaze still resting upon her. She could feel the weight of it, feel the warmth of it against her skin as tangibly as she could feel the heat of the fire.

Bea prepared Justin’s tea the way he liked it, lifting the cup as he got to his feet to accept it. “There’s cake too, and biscuits,” she said, gesturing to the tray where a sugar dusted jam sponge sat beside a plate piled high with butter biscuits.”

“Cake, please,” Justin said. “I have a sweet tooth.”

“I know, I prepared your tea,” she said, smiling at him. “Two lumps in that little cup,” she scolded, shaking her head.

He laughed at that and returned a rueful shrug. “I know, I know, and you take none because you are sweet enough.”

“Not so sweet that I shall forgo the cake,” she remarked tartly, cutting them both a generous slice. “We shall make the Christmas cake tomorrow after church. Will you come and stir up with us?”

He gave her a quizzical look as he accepted the slice of cake. “Stir up?”

Bea gazed at him in astonishment. “It’s Stir Up Sunday,” she said, assuming this would clarify things for him. Apparently not, as the blank gaze remained. “Good heavens. You’ve never stirred a Christmas cake before?”

“Er… no?” he replied, obviously bemused as he took a bite of the cake, chewing with pleasure, judging from his expression.

Bea shook her head, and then remembered his mother died when he was a baby, and whilst she did not know what his father had been like, she assumed he’d not been one for domesticity. The man in the portrait had looked like a handsome rake, just like his son.

“It’s tradition,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “On the last Sunday before Advent, you make the mixture for Christmas cakes and puddings. The family all come together and stir the mixture from east to west, to represent the journey the wise men took on their way to visit the baby Jesus. It brings good luck for the coming year.”

He was watching her, an oddly wistful gleam in his eyes. “And… you would like me to come and stir up with you?” He looked away, chasing the last crumbs of the cake around his plate with a fingertip.

There was something in his voice too, a careful quality, as if he didn’t trust the invitation or perhaps that he was afraid of finding it wasn’t real. Bea considered his question, considered if the invitation was offering him more than the simple act of stirring a pudding.

“Yes, I would,” she replied firmly, heart thudding.

He looked up and his smile did the most peculiar thing to her stupid, stupid heart.

“Then I shall be in the kitchen at the appointed hour. Only tell me when, and if I must dress for the occasion,” he said mischievously.

She laughed at that. “Well, it’s clearly a formal occasion,” she teased him. “Evening dress is a must.”

He nodded, as if he took her words seriously, though laughter shone in the blue depths of his gaze. “I thought as much.”

Bea smiled at him, a warm sensation in her chest, something very much like hope. She tried to squash it down, tried to tell herself she did not, could not, trust it, but the sensation lingered all the same. It diminished only when she remembered the portraits, and what she had intended to ask him. Her thoughts must have shown on her face.

“What is it? Have you decided to rescind the invitation so soon?” he asked, only half joking, she thought.

Bea shook her head. “No. I beg your pardon, it’s only—”

She took a breath, steeling her nerve and praying he would not be angry with her. It was such a pleasant interlude, this time with him, and she did not wish to spoil it. Perhaps she ought to ask him another time.

“It’s only?” he prompted.

Bea sighed. “Do you promise not to be cross with me?”

His lips quirked. “Whom have you murdered, little Boudicca?”

“No one!” she replied, huffing at him. “It’s nothing like that. It’s only I found some things in the attic, and I would very much like to bring them down, but I shall not, if you prefer I leave them alone.”

“Why should I mind?” he asked in confusion.

“Because they’re portraits of your parents.”

He blinked at her, and for a moment she wondered if he had heard her words. Then he let out a breath. “I see.”

He set his empty plate aside and got to his feet, walking to the window.

“I’m sorry. I ought not to have asked,” she said wretchedly, cursing herself for having spoken of a subject that was bound to be painful to him.

He turned, shaking his head before looking outside again. One hand lifted to the back of his neck and squeezed. “No. No do not be sorry. It’s only that you took me by surprise. I’d half-forgotten they were there.”

“Only half?” she asked softly.

He shrugged, still not looking at her. “Such memories are never buried that deeply, I suppose, no matter how one tries.”

“They are a very handsome couple,” she offered, hoping to lighten the moment.

Justin nodded. “My mother died before I knew her, but that portrait was always in this room, over there,” he said, gesturing to the spot on the wall where Bea had instinctively thought to hang the picture. “I did not know who she was until I was perhaps six years old, and my nanny told me.”

“Your father didn’t—”

Justin let out a breath of laughter. “My father could not bear to be in the house once my mother had gone. It was the one thing that comforted me as a lad, that they had loved each other when they made me. When she died, I believe he went a little mad. He certainly did not remember he had a son.”

“You never saw him?”

He shook his head. “No. But I became obsessed with the portrait, and I would sit before it for hours and hours, gazing at my mother, wondering if I had been a very bad child for her not to want to stay with me.”

Bea’s heart clenched at the words, but he turned around to face her before she could say anything foolish. “Of course, Nanny told me it was no such thing. That her death was nothing to do with me at all, that she had been ill and had died. But she said that she did not hold with such mawkish sentimentality. So she took the portrait down and had it sent to the attic.”

“You’ve not seen it since?” Bea asked.

He shook his head. “No. I think I should like to, though, so I thank you for finding it.”

Bea let out a breath of relief and then realised he had not said if his father’s portrait was also welcome.

“And… And the other one?”

He did not answer for a long time. “My father,” he began and then shook his head. “I do not know.”

“He’s very like you,” she offered, and then wished the words unsaid as he swung around, his eyes blazing with emotion.

“Oh, very like,” he agreed, his tone one she did not like, full of self-loathing. “Two peas in a pod.”

“Don’t say that,” she snapped at him, suddenly angry for reasons she was not entirely certain of.

He stilled, frowning at her. “Why not? It’s what everyone else in the world says. Cut from the same cloth, following the same path to destruction.”

“Because you are not your father, because you are not bankrupt and have not run out of choices.”

His fists clenched, and he turned away, his shoulders rigid. “If I am not bankrupt, that is because of you and nothing I ever did, but my father had choices, too. There were still properties to sell, land, but he left that all to me to do. He cared nothing but for his own pain and embarrassment, the loss of his honour was more important than I was, he left me alone with the wolves circling.”

There was such anger behind the words, such rage and pain, that Bea hesitated. Perhaps she should leave him alone to calm down, it was not her place to comfort him and… and yet whose place was it if not his wife’s, his friend’s?

She got to her feet and crossed to him, hardly knowing how she dared as she reached out and took his hand, curling her fingers about his. Words crowded on her tongue, but she did not know if they were the right ones, the ones that would help ease the hurt, but she had to try, had to say something.

“He left those properties and that land for you, so you would not be so encumbered once he was gone. Perhaps he believed he was doing it for the best, that you would be better off without him. I know he would have wanted to see you grow, to have been beside you, but perhaps he did not feel worthy of that. I cannot imagine how disordered a man’s mind must be to believe he has no other option but to end his life, but I do not believe he would have done it to hurt you, Justin, perhaps he did it to save you, to help you make better choices.”

Justin swung around, staring at her with such shock in his eyes that she took a step back. He was breathing hard, like the air had been knocked from his lungs.

“Justin, I’m sorry,” Bea exclaimed, appalled that she had been so clumsy, that she had said something to hurt or shock him so profoundly.

“Excuse me,” he said, his voice hoarse, before he let go of her hand and hurried from the room.

Justin fled the house without coat or hat, hurrying outside and sucking in deep lungfuls of air. Bea’s gentle voice, filled with such empathy and understanding, filled his ears, the things she had said echoing over and over, tenderly destroying everything he had believed of his father, everything he had told himself for decades, with a few well-chosen words.

Good luck, son. I pray you do better than I did.

Justin hurried away from the house, across the gardens, out into the trees, walking until he found himself in the middle of the woodland that surrounded much of Chalfont. Trees towered overhead, skeletal branches hung with the occasional dead leaf as their fallen brethren crunched underfoot.

He left those properties and that land for you, so you would not be so encumbered once he was gone. Perhaps he believed he was doing it for the best, that you would be better off without him.

He leaned back against the trunk of an immense oak tree, one that would not have been noticeably smaller when his father had been a boy.

I pray you do better than I did.

But he hadn’t done better, had he? He’d not understood what his father had been trying to tell him, what Bea had explained without hesitation. Instead, he’d been worse, done worse, fallen far farther than his father ever had.

“No,” he said shakily. “No.”

Because he wasn’t dead yet. He wasn’t bankrupt thanks to his wife, and though his honour might be beyond salvage in the eyes of the ton , Beatrice did not look at him with contempt. For reasons he did not understand, she had offered him friendship despite knowing from the outset that he was a bad bet. She had told him so at that very first meeting, had she not, told him they ought to live separate lives, and yet she had softened towards him, seen something in him worthy of trust, worthy of her time. If she could still find something good in him, some remnant of the man he might have been, then surely it was not too late.

He would make sure it was not too late.