by Abigail Agar
She was certain that her expression to her mother was one of accusation. When her mother looked worried, Beatrice clenched her jaw. Her mother had not meant to betray her. More than likely Mr. Hinton’s mother had lied to her own mother.
And her own mother must not have known him all that well.
It felt like a terrible waste of the weekend. Mercifully, she had only committed to a couple of hours with Mr. Hinton, but Beatrice wanted to return home and be with her family once more. It would have made everything so much better.
“What happened to your sister?” Mr. Hinton asked. It was utterly spontaneous and not the sort of question that Beatrice would ever have expected from polite society.
“What on earth do you mean? She is at home now,” Beatrice said, as if he had only been asking Louise’s whereabouts.
“That is not what I meant. Her leg. What happened to her leg?” Mr. Hinton asked.
Beatrice was growing ever more furious.
“She was born with it like that. Why? Is there a problem?” Beatrice challenged him.
“If we were to have children one day, would there be a risk for such a horror in them?” Mr. Hinton asked.
Beatrice stopped in place, horrified that he would ask such a callous and cruel question.
“What is it? You do not expect me to just marry you without making sure first, do you?” Mr. Hinton asked.
“Mr. Hinton. Good heavens. I never imagined that I would meet a man like you in all my life,” Beatrice said.
He looked at her with those dull, expressionless eyes.
“Is that a compliment?” he asked, ready to preen.
“No,” she said, firmly, nearly a low growl.
Mr. Hinton leaned back, looking appalled that she would respond in such a way.
“Mr. Hinton, I can hardly believe what a callous heart you have. My sister is a wonderful woman and her leg is but one small physical flaw. She is perfect otherwise. And, for your information, I do not need to answer your question,” Beatrice said.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because it is irrelevant. You and I shall never have any children,” Beatrice said, storming away from him.
She walked past her mother and father who were both clearly quite worried.
“Beatrice!” her mother called after her, with a voice full of concern.
But Beatrice did not slow down.
The following day, she enjoyed time with her family and responded to an invitation to lunch from Mr. Hinton saying that she thought it best they end their acquaintanceship
“Mrs. Watters has a son in London. She said that she would like to arrange for the two of you to meet upon your return,” her mother said.
Beatrice wanted to refuse, but she had already told her mother that she was happy to allow her to try and find a match. She could not give up after only one failed attempt.
“His sister lives in London as well and she would accompany the two of you,” her mother said, confirming that they would not be alone.
The time with her family went by too quickly, as usual. Beatrice returned to London and answered the letter that came from the young Mr. Watters.
When she joined him—along with his sister—for tea one afternoon, Beatrice quickly understood why he had not yet found a wife.
Mr. Watters was terribly ill-mannered at the dinner table. He had no self-control and, although his appearance was not the main thing she considered, he cared a good deal more about the company of the food than the company of Beatrice.
He had even dared to ask if she was going to finish her potatoes and, upon saying that she would not, he took one right from her plate.
Of course, these meetings were rapidly taking on a comedic form and they were rather hysterical by the time she recounted them to Isla.
Shortly after the second meeting, Beatrice was leaving the Seton Estate to send a letter when the coach belonging to Lord Hawthorn arrived.
“Are you going out?” he asked her.
“I am. Just for a moment,” she said.
“Well, I do hope that you accomplish your task,” he said, grinning in solidarity.
“Thank you, My Lord. Just posting a letter, that is all. And you are here to speak with Lady Seton?” she asked.
Lord Hawthorn looked at the estate, as if trying to take it all in.
“Yes, indeed. I believe that I have some very important things to think about and I do hope that, in time, she shall be able to help me with them,” he said.
Beatrice did not know what he meant by that, but she understood that it was not up to her to pry. She would have to be patient and trust that Lord Hawthorn and Isla knew what they were doing.
“Well, Miss Cloud, I do wish you a most glorious day. I have to say that, now that I have seen you, my own day is a good deal brighter,” Lord Hawthorn said.
“Thank you, My Lord. I hope that I am able to elicit such a reaction from others in time. I ought to practice,” she said.
“You need no practice. This is not the pianoforte, Miss Cloud. This is a matter of the heart,” he replied.
Beatrice felt her heart melting in her chest. There was something so soothing about his words that she felt as though she might turn into the softest butter just at hearing them.
“Thank you, My Lord,” she said again, not wanting to push propriety by saying anything more.
It had been a brief conversation, but it left Beatrice feeling light and filled with energy and happiness that she could not reasonably explain.
There was something so unique about Lord Hawthorn that Beatrice could not quite place. He was a nice man, but there were nice men found nearly anywhere in the world.
He was also handsome, but that, too, could be found in others.
Whatever the unique aspect of his personality was, it was something that she had never known before. Something she had not found in another man.
Maybe it was love. Who could say? Although she had, at times, used the word rather flippantly to describe a simple infatuation, she understood the value of it. And if this was truly love, she would need to stay strong.
Loving someone like Lord Hawthorn could only lead to pain. For a woman of her station, it was not even remotely possible and she could not give herself the leeway that she might desire to remember that.
But Beatrice watched Lord Hawthorn go to the door and knock before Sybil let him in. He turned back to Beatrice once, flashed that lovely smile, and proceeded forward.
He, surely, must know how he made her heart melt. No man would behave as he did if he did not know the power that he had over a woman.
Power. Was that where the love came from?
She wanted to believe that. It would make it easier to shift the blame. She would not have to be responsible for loving the man that Isla should be marrying.
No, instead, she accepted that it really was her own fault.
If she loved Lord Hawthorn, it was because she did not have the self-control required to stay away from him.
Beatrice accepted it, but she chose not to dwell on it. He was there to see Isla. His future bride. Whatever else she might want, nothing could change that fact.
Chapter 26
Peter arrived at the estate, ready to visit with Lady Seton, when he heard the sound of crying from beyond the trees along the path to the home.
He paused, uncertain as to what he should do. He could go and confront the sad soul, or he could go about his business. Either way, it left him with quite a responsibility.
But Peter recognised that he had no choice. He could not ignore a sad and lonely soul. Even if it made him late, or even if it was uncomfortable having to face someone in such distress, his heart broke at the sounds of sobbing.
With quiet, gentle steps, he cautiously made his way through the trees. He did not wish to be so quiet that he startled the weeping woman, but it hardly mattered anyway. By the time he reached her she looked up with those familiar, hazel eyes, quickly trying to pull herself together.
&nb
sp; “Miss Cloud, are you all right?” Peter asked. He looked at her with worry and concern. He had not expected it to be her at all and was ashamed that he would not have considered that she, too, had deep emotions which she might not wish to share with the world.
She sniffed and nodded, unconvincingly. The redness in her eyes and tears upon her cheeks betrayed her, even if she wanted to convince him that she was fine. Peter knew better. He would not let her get by with this pretense of being perfectly at ease.
“Please, do tell me what is wrong. What has you so upset? I have never seen you like this before,” he said, although he had to admit that he didn’t know her well enough to say what she might be like on a normal day.
“Please, forgive me. I did not mean to make such a fool out of myself,” she said.
“You are no fool, Miss Cloud. You are obviously distraught. I imagine that there must be a reason for it,” Peter said.
“Nothing that you should be concerned about. I am making a fool of myself, that is all,” she said again.
Peter stood near her, not knowing what to say. Why was she continually declaring herself to be a fool? Why was she so determined to hide whatever it was that had upset her? Was it something that Lord Seton had done? Something that Peter might need to take a stand against?
Miss Cloud was trying so hard to be strong and Peter could see that it was taking a toll on her. She was determined to be brave, to keep her secrets close, but she was so clearly hurt that he had no choice other than to try and push.
“Please, Miss Cloud. Please, tell me what it is that is hurting you. What has happened?” he asked.
She nodded, silently, conceding to his demand. With a deep breath, in and out, she finally looked as though she was going to tell him what it was that had happened.
“I have had a bit of a struggle as of late,” she finally confessed.
“Yes? Of what sort?” he asked.
She took another deep breath, this time with more difficulty, and exhaled her evident frustration.
“I…what I mean to say is that my mother has arranged for…for courtship,” she said, as though she despised the very word itself.
Peter tried to smile, although he didn’t like thinking about that. Still, he wanted Miss Cloud to be happy and to have a chance at love and romance. But, he wondered, why was she so upset? What had happened to give her such a grievance in the midst of it?
“Courtship is…it is not what I thought that it would be,” she said.
“In what way? How is it that you are so grieved by it?” Peter asked, understanding perfectly well that courtship could come with grand disappointments and unpleasant expectations from others.
“I thought that I would have a chance to find love, true love. I hoped for as much. But I know that such a thing is hardly an option. I shall have no choice but to either stay alone or marry for convenience. It was a ridiculous notion to think that anything else was possible,” Miss Cloud said.
Peter was distressed to hear this. He hated knowing that Miss Cloud was being paraded before other men, knowing that she would have to find a husband, knowing that he would have to forever deny what he felt for her.
But he hated this even more. She was miserable, aching. She had to accept a fate of marrying someone that she did not love and Peter understood the pain of that.
“I am terribly sorry to hear this. I take it that you have entertained a gentleman to see if there is a possible interest?” he asked, knowing that he was prying.
“I have now met with three of the men that my mother wished to arrange a match with. Not one of them has been even the least bit interesting to me. My mother knows me well and I can only think that she does not know these gentlemen at all if she has chosen them for me. I am at my wits’ end and believe I am going to have to ask her to give me some peace from all of this,” Miss Cloud said.
“That is awful. Do you think you will give any of them a second chance, or are you sure that they are all the wrong fit for you?” he asked.
Miss Cloud scoffed.
“Not one of them is anything that I would ever choose. Not a single thread of character runs through them that I would hope to marry,” she said.
Once more, Peter was relieved for himself as he simultaneously ached for her. Although he empathised with her situation, he wanted her affection…even if that was entirely wrong of him.
Whether or not she found a decent match ought to have been of no consequence to him. He was an engaged man, regardless of Miss Cloud’s status.
“Miss Cloud, you deserve to be happy,” he said.
“Everyone does. But what chance is there for happiness? If one is to marry, one must marry whomever is chosen for them, whomever one is willing to accept,” she said, shrugging and wiping the remnants of tears from her eyes.
“But why must it be that way?” he asked in exasperation. It was frustrating that he had come to see the woman he was being ordered to marry, only to stumble upon the woman he actually cared for crying about the fact that she was being matched to men that she did not have feelings for.
All of it was dreadfully unfair.
“I fear that we shall never know. It is simply our lot in life, Lord Hawthorn. We must always live under the instruction of the empire, subject to the ways of society. If I am fortunate enough to marry, I must accept the misfortune of not being able to love my spouse,” she said, summing up their reality.
But Peter could not stop himself from asking a further question.
“And what sort of man would you love?” he asked, softly.
Miss Cloud looked at him with wide eyes, pink cheeks, and a wordless answer. She swallowed and he could read in her eyes what she could not say aloud.
For a moment, just a moment, he answered her back.
Through his silence, with only a look, he told her that he wished things were different, that he wished he could marry her instead. He told her that he wanted to be rid of his engagement and only know Lady Seton as a friend and as the wife of Lord Beckridge.
He told her that she was his everything. He told Miss Cloud that no one would ever compare to her, that she was his bright and shining star in the midst of a soul’s dark night.
Peter even asked her if she felt the same way about him.
Her eyes told him that she did.
But Peter understood that he could not remain in this posture with Miss Cloud. He had to be noble, even when it was the last thing his heart desired.
“Forgive me, Miss Cloud. That was an unfair question for me to ask you,” he said.
“No. No, not at all,” she said, looking down and clearing her throat. “In fact, it is quite the opposite. I was wrong to have spoken to you about such things as my own marriage prospects. It was quite inappropriate.”
“Please, do not think that. You may come to me with anything, Miss Cloud. I would never refuse to hear your thoughts on any matter,” Peter said.
“I thank you for that, but I must exercise better judgment on my own part,” she replied.