by Abigail Agar
“Papa, it was my fault,” Cecile said. “I lost my gold ring. I know you told me to take care of it. I was so scared that you would be angry with me and I asked Miss Cloud to help me find it. She was just trying to help. But I was really very naughty and I am so sorry, Father.”
“Miss Cloud should not have taken her eyes off your sister,” Lord Seton said.
“You are right, My Lord. I am terribly sorry. I should have been more careful,” she said, looking at the ground and not meeting his gaze.
“Lord Seton,” Peter said, unwilling to stay quiet.
He turned to Peter, first alarmed, but then patiently.
“Perhaps, given that Mary is all right, we may celebrate for the moment. It was a very frightening ordeal, of course. Can we not all rejoice in the knowledge that she is all right? Let us leave blame for other matters,” he said.
Lord Seton looked started, as if he was not quite sure he wanted to do what Peter was suggesting, but he finally nodded.
“Yes, I suppose you are right. Let us celebrate Mary’s safety. But you must all come and stay near us. I will not have my daughter running off into the water again,” Lord Seton said.
“Yes, My Lord,” Miss Cloud said, glancing up at Peter in silent appreciation.
He nodded to her and sensed her gratitude, although that was not why he had done it. It was not right that she should be scolded. She was doing her best and she had already told Mary once not to go out onto the rock. She had every reason to believe that she would be listened to.
Lord Seton led everyone back to the space where they had been sitting and eating so they might clean up and return to the house. His wife held Mary tightly and continuously darted glares at Miss Cloud, who took it in stride, accepting whatever they decided to accuse her with.
After all, that was the duty of a governess.
Peter felt bad for never having thought about what life must be like for those who worked for nobility. Until meeting Miss Cloud, he had not even considered it a pressing issue. But now? Now, he was beginning to wonder why those who ran estates and had titles felt that they had a right to be above those the employed.
He thought of his own housekeeper and the maids. Surely, he could do better.
But it was not only Miss Cloud’s ability to accept the way Lord and Lady Seton were speaking to her that surprised him. It was also the selflessness that she had shown in jumping into the water without regard for her own safety. She had cared only for Mary.
The responsibility that she felt toward her charges was admirable. He wondered if every governess would be so willing to do something like that or if Miss Cloud really was as special as he believed her to be. It seemed unlikely that he would ever find another woman out there who cared so much for children who were not her own.
She had shown so much courage. Mary’s own family had not appeared as concerned as Miss Cloud had been.
Later, once they returned to the estate, Peter gave little Mary a sweet kiss on the top of her head before her mother took her upstairs to dress in warm clothes and lay under thick layers of blankets.
“You must always listen to Miss Cloud, do you understand?” he asked.
“Yes, Lord Hawthorn. I will listen to her,” she said.
“Very good. She is a wise woman, you know. She loves you very much and wants you to be safe and healthy. Please, do not worry her so much as you have worried us all today. It made us so very concerned when you jumped in the water,” Peter said.
“I shan’t do it again,” she promised.
But Peter could see the twinkle in her eye. She was a mischievous child. Not a bad child; just one who longed for danger, a child with a wild spirit. It was admirable in some ways, worrying in others.
More than anything, Peter hoped that she would never again put her life in jeopardy because of it.
It was time that Peter should leave the family, and he said his farewells. He saw Miss Cloud seated in the back corner of the parlour once more, remaining silent and allowing life to go on around her as it must always do.
“Miss Cloud, thank you for your rescue of Mary today. It was very well done,” Peter said, just before leaving.
“Th-thank you, My Lord,” she replied, clearly embarrassed that he had said it in front of her employers.
Peter no longer cared. He knew that he could have nothing romantic with Miss Cloud, but that did not mean that he could not appreciate her. That, it seemed, was something she dearly needed.
Chapter 19
After a brief lecture from Lord Seton, Beatrice retired to her room. She was grateful that Lord Hawthorn had managed to cool Lord Seton off before he had spoken to her at the lake. It would have been far worse otherwise.
Although she had it very good at the estate, Beatrice knew well that she would still be subject to the same scoldings as anyone else who worked in the home. It was only a marvel that she had not had to face anything worse.
However, aside from his assistance in that matter, Beatrice was struggling a great deal after having spent the day so near to Lord Hawthorn. She did not wish to be the sort of woman who pined over a man, but it felt like the only thing she could do most days.
It was driving her mad to have to see Lord Hawthorn. Knowing that his wedding to Isla was approaching so quickly only made it that much worse. She felt terribly guilty for caring about him, even if Isla did appear somewhat indifferent.
This only made things more difficult. If she could at least talk to Isla about caring for a man she would feel better, but due to that man’s identity and his status as Isla’s betrothed, it could never happen.
She was trapped with her silence.
Beatrice could not help but wish that she had never met Lord Hawthorn. It would have made everything easier. She would be able to continue living her life with ease, even if they simply hadn’t spoken at the ball that first night. Then, she would have always thought him handsome, but she would never have known that he was also kind.
It was overwhelming to care about him as much as she did when the whole thing had been an accident, a mistake. If she could go back to that night, she would. She would ask his name right away and then tell him that he was looking for Isla.
Everything would have been better. Easier. She would be free of the overwhelming affection that she felt for him, free of the terrible guilt that she felt for liking him. And Isla would have spoken to no man other than him that night.
They would both be happy.
“What are you doing?” came Isla’s voice.
Beatrice jumped. She had been so lost in her thoughts as she stared out of the window that she had not even realised Isla was there.
“Sorry, I did not mean to startle you. What is it? I do not think I have ever seen you so distracted before,” Isla said, coming over and sitting in the chair opposite Beatrice.
The parlour had been quiet for once and that was one of the reasons Beatrice had gone there instead of staying cooped up in her bedroom. She did not wish to be around others, but she also wanted the brightness of the sitting room as opposed to her dim bedroom.
“Honestly, I was just enjoying the light,” Beatrice said, knowing she could share nothing more.
“Is that all? You looked rather deep in thought,” Isla said.
“Perhaps, but nothing of importance,” Beatrice replied.
“All right, well, I am glad that everything is fine,” Isla said, although her own demeanour made it clear that she was not feeling content.
“Isla, dear, what is it?” Beatrice asked, setting aside her own sadness.
“I probably should not even speak about it,” she replied.
“I have come to find that the things we feel we should not speak of are, most often, the most important things to be said,” Beatrice told her.
Isla nodded, silently.
“Perhaps…” she finally said.
“Then you must tell me. Or, if not me, someone,” Beatrice said.
“There is no one I would trust more t
han you,” Isla said.
“What is it, then? Why are you upset?” Beatrice asked.
She sighed and seemed to search for the words.
“I know that Lord Hawthorn is a wonderful man. Honestly, I think I am terribly fortunate to be engaged to him. My mother and father chose well for me. He is a kind and good man. Just the sort that any young lady would be happy to marry,” Isla said.
“Yes, of course. But you have an objection?” Beatrice asked.
Her heart was ready to leap into her throat. Hating herself for daring to hope that Isla would ask to end the engagement, Beatrice could not help the desire. She reminded herself again that, even if such a thing did occur, Lord Hawthorn would never have an interest in a governess.
And even if he did, he would hardly be willing to allow it to blossom into anything more.
“Yes…I have an objection,” Isla said.
Beatrice let out her breath. This was exactly what she had been longing to hear. And yet the weight of her guilt was overwhelming.
“What is it? Is it something that may be overcome? Or are you truly unhappy?” Beatrice asked.
“I like Lord Hawthorn. Really. I think that I could be very happy with him, under different circumstances. But as it is, I cannot find it within myself to want to marry him. Not when…” she trailed off.
Beatrice gave her a look of imploring. She was desperate to know what it was that Isla was thinking, desperate to know why she objected to the marriage.
“Beatrice, despite myself, my heart belongs to another,” she said.
This came as quite a surprise to Beatrice. Although she had seen Isla and Lord Hawthorn’s friend getting along well, she did not think that it was really enough to desire an end to her engagement. Not only that, but they had only met a very few times. Once at the party and then a couple of times in passing that Isla had mentioned.
But Beatrice had not realised that Isla had mentioned those times because they had meant so much to her. She had spoken of the brief encounters because they were moments she had cherished.
Of course. Beatrice felt terribly foolish for not having realised that Isla would have preferred an engagement to the Baron of Ryle, Lord Beckridge.
“Who?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Lord Beckridge,” Isla confirmed.
“Ah, yes, the two of you did seem to get on quite well at the gathering your father hosted. He was a good man?” Beatrice asked.
“Very good. And very kind. Interesting. Handsome,” Isla listed. Tears filled her eyes and she sniffed against them, trying to hold herself with dignity even if it was difficult.
“Is there nothing that can be done? I am sure that Lord Hawthorn likes you very much, but if he consented to end the engagement, would your father accept your marriage to Lord Beckridge?” Beatrice asked.
“My father wants me to marry Lord Hawthorn, no matter what. Besides, to marry a baron would be marrying below our own station. He would never allow that. Lord Hawthorn is also an earl, and he happens to be wealthier than us. My father has every reason to want me to marry him instead,” Isla said.
Beatrice realised that she was no longer concerned for herself. This was not a matter of hoping that Lord Hawthorn would take an interest in her. This was a matter of Isla being hurt and wanting the freedom to marry the man that she had come to love.
“I am so sorry, Isla. I cannot imagine how difficult it must be to love one man when you are destined to marry another,” Beatrice said.
Isla laughed bitterly through her tears.
“I am such a fool, Beatrice! I hardly even know Lord Beckridge. We have spoken only in passing since that night we first met. And when he hosted the ball, I longed for him to ask me for a dance. I threw myself in his path and we spoke for nearly twenty minutes, then again later for ten or fifteen. But he never asked,” she said, sadly.
“Do you believe that he cares for you in return?” Beatrice asked.
“I believe so. He has never said it, but he could not even if he wished to. I am meant to be marrying his dearest friend. He is a good man and he would never do something like that to Lord Hawthorn,” Isla said, her eyes red and her lip trembling.
“If you love one another, Lord Hawthorn will understand. I mean, not if he loves you a great deal. I am sure that it would hardly be easy for him. But I do expect that he would want whatever is best for you,” Beatrice said.
“I am confident that he does not love me. He always tries to be polite, but I know that he is bored when we are together,” Isla said.
“What makes you think that?” Beatrice asked.
“He never appears to be truly interested in our conversations. Oh, I do not know. Maybe I only think that because I am the one who is bored,” Isla said.
“Surely it cannot be all that bad,” Beatrice said.
“No, it is not. It is only that I am saddened by the knowledge that there is a man out there for whom I care dearly and I am being forced into a marriage with his closest friend,” Isla said.
Beatrice remained quiet, frightened that Isla might recognise that she, too, was struggling with Isla’s marriage to Lord Hawthorn.
“I simply wish that I had a say in my own life,” Isla said.
“It must be terribly difficult to feel that you do not,” Beatrice said.
“More than you can imagine,” she said.
“There must be something you can do, Isla. I know that it will not be easy, but surely your father will listen to you. You must explain it to him,” Beatrice said.
“Oh, he understands quite well, I think…”
The words were growled from just beyond the door, Lord Seton’s voice low and filled with a terrifyingly calm fury.
Beatrice stiffened, but not half as much as Isla did.
They both turned to look, neither of them breathing for a moment longer than they might normally be able to sustain.
And there he was.
Lord Seton.
“How dare you,” he said, staring at his daughter.
Beatrice awaited his rage that she had encouraged Isla to try and get out of the marriage, but it did not seem that it would come. Rather Lord Seton had trained his sights on Isla, angry that she would wish for anything that he had not arranged for her.
“Father…” she said in a frightened whisper.
“You dare to call me that? You wish to defy me, and yet you call me your father?” he asked.
“Please, Papa, you must listen. I will marry him,” she said, urgently.
“Yes! Yes, you shall, there is no questioning that. I only thought that you would be wiser than to even think of having feelings for another man. What is the matter with you? What unacceptable nonsense has got into your head?” he demanded.
“Nothing, Father. I promise,” Isla said, her voice quaking. “It is only that…”
“What? Spit it out,” he said.
“Father,” she said in that desperate tone. “Father, I do not love him. Why would it be so dreadful for me to marry Lord Beckridge?”