Page 5 of A Widow for the Earl (The Gentlemen’s Club #5)
CHAPTER FOUR
FOUR MONTHS LATER…
“ M rs. Stephens, is that an apple pie I smell?” Beatrice called out, wending her way down the white gravel path that meandered through the herb garden.
A basket dangled from the crook of her arm, filled to the brim with blackberries and wild strawberries that she had gathered on her late afternoon walk.
The seasons had changed during the months of her third mourning period, the cool unfurling of spring blending into the heat of a true summer that was just beginning to taper off.
“It is, my lady!” the cook, Mrs. Stephens, replied, poking her head out of the kitchen door. “I was just about to send Mr. Bolam to find you. Dinner is ready for you whenever you want it.”
Beatrice’s mouth watered, her stomach growling eagerly. “I might eat out on the terrace this evening, if that is not too much trouble? I do not know how many more lovely evenings like this there will be before autumn; I should hate to miss even one.”
“I thought you might say that.” Mrs. Stephens chuckled. “I already had Margaret prepare the little table out there.”
Beatrice sighed contentedly. “What would I do without you?”
“I’ve a feeling you’d manage well enough, putting us all to shame,” the cook replied, smiling fondly at her mistress.
“Nonsense. I would be utterly lost,” Beatrice insisted, suddenly remembering the reason she had come this way instead of through the main entrance. “Is everything arranged for the night’s entertainment?”
Mrs. Stephens nodded hesitantly. “I think so. I don’t understand it myself, but Mr. Bolam told me to tell you that everything is in place.” She paused. “You can’t tell me the surprise?”
“It would not be a surprise if I did,” Beatrice pointed out. “And I should hate to ruin it. You have all worked so hard and welcomed me so warmly; you simply must let me give you this gift, as intended, without asking any more about it.”
The cook sighed. “Very well, my lady. I’ll look forward to it instead.”
“I hope you will like it,” Beatrice urged, handing her the basket of berries. “I gathered these for you. The brambles are bursting out by the pond, and I doubt I have ever seen so many strawberries growing in one place.”
Mrs. Stephens took the basket, smiling. “I was just thinking I ought to send someone to gather some! You see, my lady, it’s definitely more of a matter of what would we do without you .”
“You must not flatter me when I have caused you nothing but trouble,” Beatrice said, her tone tinged with remorse.
“Nonsense, my lady. We are glad to have you, and I truly mean that,” the cook insisted.
“Wycliffe Manor hasn’t been so joyful in decades.
Perhaps I shouldn’t say that, but it’s the truth, and I won’t have you tying yourself into knots when there’s no need.
You’re the finest mistress and master we’ve ever had. ”
“Well… thank you,” Beatrice mumbled, rallying quickly. “Now, before I blush so fiercely that I remain a permanent shade of raspberry, I am going upstairs to change out of these clothes. After that, I will make my way to the terrace for dinner. Does that suit?”
“It does, my lady,” Mrs. Stephens replied, looking fondly at the young widow. “There ought to be a dress laid out for you already. Shall I send Marie up to help you?”
Beatrice waved away the suggestion. “I shall be quite all right alone.”
With that, she headed back the way she had come through the herb garden, choosing to take the scenic path to her bedchamber. Butterflies danced between the rosemary and mint, bees crowding the pretty fronds of lavender that would be turned into oil, to drop into Beatrice’s leisurely evening baths.
She lifted her face to the golden sunlight, so at peace and content that she could hardly believe it.
When she had found Sebastian dead in his bed, she had thought the world would end, bracing herself for the witch hunt that would undoubtedly ensue.
More than that, she had braced for the moment she would be kicked out of Wycliffe Manor, as she had been kicked out of Lord Albany’s, Lord Brinkley’s, and, of course, her father’s residences.
Instead, the staff of Wycliffe Manor had rallied around her, tending to her, befriending her, supporting her through the turmoil.
There was no family to shun her or dismiss her, for Sebastian had had no siblings or parents living.
Indeed, he did not seem to have any aunts, uncles, or cousins either.
The funeral had confirmed it: an awkward affair, where she and the same reverend who had married her to Sebastian had been the only ones in attendance.
And as there was no heir to speak of, no one coming forward to claim Wycliffe as their own, she was master and mistress of this place.
At least until someone realized the mistake, and the title ended up being given to someone else.
Thus far, no one of authority had noticed, and she prayed it would remain that way.
It is such a small property. Perfect for me, but too insignificant for anyone to want or fight over.
“Bea!” the cry went up, starling Beatrice out of her reverie.
It had been months since she had heard her name, happily sequestered away in solitude for the mourning period. Considering the brevity of the marriage, it had been decided that four months would suffice. Indeed, it was exactly four months to the day and there, right on time, was Valeria.
“Valery? What are you doing here?” Beatrice ran across the front terrace, bounding down the two shallow steps to reach her cousin, who waited on the driveway.
“I was passing on my way to Skeffington, to see Papa,” Valeria replied.
“I could not have forgiven myself if I did not stop on this, the day of your freedom from mourning. Although, in truth, I just wanted to see how you were faring. You did not respond to my last letter; I feared something might have happened to you.”
Beatrice embraced her cousin warmly. “I am quite well, Cousin. Very well, in truth. These months of seclusion have been rather good for me.” She pulled back, gesturing up at the house.
“I have been busy making changes to the manor, taking long walks, getting to know the staff, enjoying myself in a way I have not done in an age. Perhaps ever.”
“I am not certain you are supposed to enjoy yourself during mourning,” Valeria said with a somewhat bewildered smile.
Beatrice shrugged. “Society thinks me wicked anyway; it does not matter how I behave anymore.” She paused.
“I was alone at Fetterton so often, yet there was always the anxiety that my mother and father would return unannounced. Here, I have none of that fear. No one is coming, and it is… wonderful.”
“Should I not have come, then?” Valeria chuckled.
“Of course, I do not mean you!” Beatrice grinned. “ You are always welcome, for you are the only family I have that I actually consider to be family. Friends, too; they are perpetually welcome. I was thinking, truth be told, I might host a party in a couple of months, just for the people I like.”
Valeria nodded, more solemn than Beatrice had expected. “So, you are considering a reemergence into society? You have not decided to be a hermit, indefinitely?”
“Heavens, no.” Beatrice pulled a disgusted face. “You could not drag me back into society, but as long as I have my friends, I shall be perfectly content. Half a hermit, I suppose.”
And I have my business endeavors to keep me occupied.
She did not add that part aloud, for though Valeria knew she dabbled in some manner of enterprise, no one knew the full details.
No one ever would. That was how Beatrice planned to successfully build a lasting fortune for herself, with talent, acumen, and utter secrecy.
“It is just that… Well, there is a ball to celebrate the end of the summer,” Valeria said hesitantly.
“I thought, perhaps, it might be of benefit for you to attend. I will be there with Duncan, Amelia and Lionel will be there, Isolde and Edmund have said they will be attending, and Teresa has said she will come, though she might struggle to persuade Cyrus.”
“I hope you enjoy yourselves,” Beatrice said flatly.
“Bea, come now. You must enter society again at some point.”
Beatrice took a heavy breath, holding her cousin’s imploring gaze.
“Society did not hesitate to call me a ‘murderess.’ They say terrible things about me, even now. Why would I give them the vile satisfaction of parading myself in front of them, hearing their unkind words with my own ears? I have been in society since I was fifteen. I have had enough.”
She missed the excitement of dancing and dinner parties, of grand ballrooms and an array of gentlemen to tease, of long, giddy nights with her friends, surrounded by music and laughter.
But her father had soured that, the moment he made that first match with Lord Albany.
And the subsequent marriages and deaths and insults and suspicions had curdled her enjoyment of society, until the very thought of a ball was entirely revolting to her.
And if I show my face, all of this might be taken away. Someone might notice that I am in charge of a household, with no man ruling over it and me.
Small or not, someone would seek to bid for the title and estate, for the sole purpose of ensuring a woman did not have it for herself.
“The longer you stay away, Bea, the more you allow the rumors to grow wild,” Valeria said softly, regret gleaming in her eyes.
“I have already heard someone say that you are practicing witchcraft in the woods, and that any scorned woman can visit you, and you will cast a spell to kill the man who crossed her.”
Beatrice snorted. “Mother always said that my pursuit of revenge for scorned ladies would one day get me in dire trouble.” She waved a dismissive hand.
“If they want to believe that about me, there is nothing I can do about it. Me showing my face will not cease the rumors. If anything, it will refresh them. The best thing I can do is stay away from society until they have forgotten all about me.”
She allowed herself a small, secret smile.
If society only knew about the books she had been reading, they would take leave of their senses, building a stake to lash her to in an instant.
Ancient, illicit books about witches, ghosts, ghouls, demons, and everything in-between.
Fascinating accounts that thrilled her as much as Teresa’s beloved novels thrilled her.
Harmless, though. Beatrice was not reading such books to practice the occult; she read them to educate herself on the unknown, to perhaps find a reason why her husbands kept dying.
No one protested when Lionel told Amelia that he was cursed. Yet, when a woman declared she might be, everyone immediately leaped to the notion of witches and sorcery.
“Just this one ball, Bea,” Valeria urged. “If it does not go well, you never have to attend another one again. We will all be there to protect you from any cruelty.”
Beatrice rested a hand on Valeria’s shoulder.
“I do not need your protection, dearest cousin, because I will not be there. I am protecting myself by staying here. I have no need to attend to ‘find out’ what society thinks of me; I already know how they will respond, and I do not feel like disturbing my hard-won peace.” She smiled.
“I adore you for trying to push me out of my shell, but I am a snail now. I have chosen to be a snail. A happy snail, happy in my snail shell, sliming my way through a slow, peaceful existence.”
Valeria mustered a faint laugh. “The most beautiful snail I ever saw.”
“Do not tell the other snails; they will be jealous,” Beatrice teased, hoping that her dear cousin would come to understand why she would not be venturing into society ever again.
It was not just what they were saying about her now, but what they had always said about her: wild, unruly, wayward, improper, disgraceful, uncouth.
She might well have been all of those things, but what right did they have to judge her?
How would they have behaved if they had been raised as she had?
“If you change your mind, I will be at Skeffington for a couple of days,” Valeria said. “Write to me there or come and spend some time with me. I will visit again on my way back.”
Beatrice pulled her cousin in for another hug. “Greet my uncle for me. I imagine he is horrified by me, but, nevertheless, give him my love.”
“I doubt he has heard anything about your misfortunes,” Valeria said.
Beatrice laughed, releasing her cousin. “Well then, he must be the last person in England who has not.”
A short while later, Beatrice watched as Valeria’s carriage passed the eerie chapel where Sebastian now rested, and lowered her hand from her waving as the carriage made it through the gates and disappeared behind the boxwood hedges.
She was alone again, and, rather annoyingly, less content than she had been before. It was inevitable, she supposed, that the outside world would finally breach the walls of her sanctuary.
Her four months of peace were well and truly over.