The Beaumont Betrothal: Northbridge Bride Series Book 2

by D'Ansey, Leigh

  Annabelle squeaked. “At last!” Then her pretty face fell “But I shall need new clothes and bonnets and shoes… oh, everything!”

  “All our resources will be levelled at your coming out,” reassured Lady Cranston. “And, despite all I said earlier, it will be good tactics that you secure a contract before Sophia’s betrothal to Freddy becomes widely known.”

  “Mama!” protested Sophia. “That is almost dishonest!”

  “Remember, it is at your express wish no announcement be made until Vanessa’s birthday celebrations have been and gone,” chided her mother. “I am merely concurring with your wishes.”

  “I do not want Annabelle coerced into an unhappy marriage!”

  “Pouf!” declared Annabelle. “I shall not be coerced into anything, Sophia. I shall behave very prettily, do all etiquette demands and look exceedingly charming. I have no doubt I shall have several offers to consider.”

  Sophia stared at her younger sister. She had spent most of her life worrying about Annabelle; she had shielded her from anything that might distress her, make her unwell or disturb her comfort. Now, she found it difficult to comprehend the transformation from the wilting girl she knew to this animated creature so confident in her ability to lure any number of suitors. With her attention centred on Annabelle, it took her a moment to realise her mother had resumed the conversation.

  “As for you, Sophia, naturally, it would have been more desirable if Freddy had kept his title but the other advantages proposed by Mr. Cavanaugh afford generous compensation.” She looked up from her embroidery. “William the Conqueror himself was a by-blow and it made no difference to his vanquishing the whole of England. And just look at the Duke of Clarence and Duke and Duchess of Bedford and their muddle of offspring.” She marched the thread purposefully through the linen.

  “It may have been different if Lord Beaumont’s rank in society was not so elevated,” she continued. “But he is the fifth Earl of Enderby along with several other titles. He has served his country well; he was on excellent terms with the king and he married again in good faith. He exhausted every avenue to find Isobel and waited out the requisite period until the courts ruled her dead. Nothing has been done underhand. Undoubtedly there will be gossip but I hold the opinion that anyone who is worth knowing in the ton, will accommodate the circumstances of Freddy’s birth. As long as you are provided for, that is all that matters.”

  “And you, Mama?” Sophia knew she was being cruel and did not like herself very much for it. But neither did she enjoy the sensation of being inexorably drawn along a path not in any way of her own choosing.

  Her mother’s eyes snapped. “And I,” she agreed. “…and Annabelle, and Mrs. Brixton and Mallard. And Sarah. And Cook. You may not comprehend it as fair, Sophia, but it is an unfortunate reality that the wellbeing of us all rests upon your marriage to Freddy Beaumont—unless you wish to place yourself on the marriage mart again?” She swept Sophia with a shrewd stare and took her silence as assent. “Even that wretched pony relies on you for its continued sustenance.”

  She firmed a stitch, sat upright and let her sewing fall into her lap. “Annabelle, please fetch my India shawl.”

  “But you are already wearing a shawl, Mama!”

  “I should like something warmer.”

  Annabelle’s mouth turned down. “You are trying to get rid of me. You are going to tell Sophia something you do not think fit for my ears.”

  “You are more perceptive than I thought, my dear,” Lady Cranston said coldly. “Now pick up your chin and do as I say.”

  “It’s not fair!” cried Annabelle, throwing her tapestry aside. “How will I ever learn about anything if you always keep things from me?”

  Sophia watched her sister storm from the room, flinching when the door banged shut behind her. She bit her lip. How, indeed would Annabelle experience life if she was constrained to the countryside? At least, she, Sophia, had had the opportunity to be presented at Court, to have attended the parties, and balls and dinners, walked in the parks and perused merchandise in the Bond Street shops.

  She may have been bored to tears; she may have snubbed the advances that came her way, but she knew Annabelle would thrive on the activity, the new gowns and bonnets and pretty shoe-roses on her slippers, the al-fresco breakfasts, and suppers in the Vauxhall Gardens. And why should Annabelle not have the opportunity to find a husband if that is what she wanted? Surely Sophia had learnt by now that her sister’s preferences did not always, or even very often, match her own? A wave of remorse swept over her as she remembered the role she had played in Annabelle’s compromised health.

  When her sister had balanced on the very edge of death, Sophia had promised herself there was nothing, nothing, she would not do for her. She would move mountains to protect her sibling. And now here she was, these years later quibbling over a match that offered Annabelle a lifetime’s security whether she found a husband or not.

  Sophia knew it was not only in America that wealth might compensate for a man’s shortcomings. If a gentleman’s income totalled eight thousand pounds a year, the matter of his conception on the wrong side of the blanket could shrink in significance, particularly when the powerful Duke of Northbridge and his duchess offered their allegiance. As for herself, she knew she had the strength to step up to the mark for any snubs that came her way.

  Lady Cranston waited until the sound of Annabelle’s steps and her angry huffs had almost disappeared before she said in a tone that was not at all conciliatory: “In my defense I will speak now to you on an intimate matter, as woman-to-woman.”

  “Please do, Mama.” Sophia straightened her spine, wondering what bones were about to be laid bare.

  Lady Cranston touched her lips with the lace handkerchief she had withdrawn from a pocket in her skirt. “There is a bonus in the new state of affairs, for it is no longer imperative that you bear the Beaumont heir.”

  Sophia sat forward. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  Lady Cranston’s eyes glittered. “Do not think I have not agonized over the thought of your giving birth. It is the most hazardous occupation for any woman.”

  Sophia brought a hand to her throat. “I have dreaded it, Mama.” She bit her lip as she thought of her dearest friend from school days. “Remember Daphne, Mama? How she was so vivacious and spirited. Do you remember how she almost danced down the aisle?”

  A cleft appeared between Lady Cranston’s brows.

  Sophia swallowed. “Then she was dead, less than nine months later. And her babe along with her. And Lord Smelton simply married again after the shortest decent interlude, as if Daphne had never existed!”

  Lady Cranston surveyed Sophia with an uncharacteristically tender gaze. “These are the unbearable facts of life, my dear, but it does you no good to dwell on them.”

  But Sophia felt an urgent need to eject the words as if doing so would banish fears that had plagued her for most of her life. “And what about Fanny Armstrong? Forced to marry a man thirty years her senior, a man known for his wickedness and… profligate habits. And Fanny, so sweet and shy. With child four times and four dead infants in as many years.”

  Perhaps disturbed by Sophia’s distress, the tabby leapt from her lap and stalked from the room.

  Lady Cranston pressed a fist to her heart. “Do not forget, Sophia, I myself have endured the fear and agony of childbirth and the sorrow of losing a newborn.”

  Although the dread persisted, in that moment Sophia wished she had not embarked on her tirade.

  She leaned across and took her mother’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Mama. I did not mean to trouble you.”

  Lady Cranston gave a minute shake of her head. “I know you were there when I lost our second child,” she said, her voice growing stronger as she spoke.

  “I was very small,” said Sophia, resuming her seat, hands clasped in her lap, shoulders rigid.

  “Barely out of short strings,” agreed Mama. “Tell me what you remember.” The embroider
y lay rumpled in her lap like a forgotten duster.

  With subdued horror Sophia’s thoughts turned to the awful days and nights when her mother had been confined in her bedchamber. Her fingers twisted together.

  “I remember Dr. Williams coming and going and housemaids with steaming water, hurrying in and out of your room—”

  “Go on,” said Charlotte in controlled tones. “This is not something normally spoken of, but I have a sense it needs to be said. For your sake,” she ended after a tense pause. Only the elegant fingers drumming her cheek betrayed any emotion.

  Sophia pressed her hands between her knees. She swallowed. “I remember creeping to your doorway. It was winter and the light was very dim.”

  She put her hands to her eyelids. “But I peeked around the door and… saw…” She could not find words to describe the scene—the smell, the blood, the sense of something rushing and something gone horribly wrong.

  She swallowed hard before continuing. “I remember how you cried… and the smell of blood.” She squeezed her knees against the backs of her hands until her fingers ached. “I mean… we live in the country so one can’t help but become aware of… breeding, but that experience—that scene has been indelibly etched on the back of my mind and try as I might I have not been able to erase it.”

  Perhaps even then, she had viewed the world through the eyes of an artist, observing shades and hues and depths of color in a different way than others. The reds and the whites and the blacks of that day had continued to haunt her.

  The creases between Lady Cranston’s nose and mouth deepened. “Childbirth, especially childbirth gone wrong, is not something a small child should witness.” She drew in an unsteady breath. “It is in the nature of things that we must procreate but I have feared for you, my dear. Do you not see that you will now have all the advantages of marriage without any of the perils?”

  Perhaps the conversation had drained Sophia because she could not make sense of her mother’s remark. “I do not know what you mean, Mama. I’m sure Freddy will want to have children, whether he is heir to Enderby or not.”

  Lady Cranston’s lips twisted in a mirthless smile. “I imagine Freddy will have heaved a sigh of relief, knowing he need not be responsible for providing an heir. Remember, I have known him all his life. He is immeasurably more interested in his horses and dogs than he is in women. Some men simply do not have that urge. I do not think Freddy’s attentions will be persistent. He will be more pleased if you keep him company at his kennels than in his bed.”

  The tabby had sauntered back into the room, observed proceedings to make sure they were to her liking, and leapt back into Sophia’s lap where she curled herself into a ball and began purring immediately.

  Sophia buried her fingers in the glossy fur.

  “You mean, in essence, I should seek to be Freddy’s friend rather than his wife?”

  “Precisely.”

  Sophia stared up through the tall windows. The hawk had vanished. The sky shone with a hard, metallic gleam. Not even the flimsiest of clouds left so much as a brush print across its unending surface.

  In some measure her mother’s advice was reassuring. On the other hand, there was something dreadfully barren about the existence Sophia saw stretching before her, devoid of family and of experiences and sensations Mr. Cavanaugh’s presence had just begun to arouse.

  She thought of his thick hair and long fingers; she smelled his scent of horses and linen and leather. She thought about pressing her thumb against the indent at the corner of his mouth and whether his lips might be warm or cool. She remembered how she had woken in the night to find her hand pressed into the damp heat between her thighs.

  The tabby arched her back and her body vibrated in response to Sophia’s rhythmic caress.

  “Mr. Cavanaugh appeared surprised to learn of his wife’s arrival,” she ventured after an unsettling moment, lowering her eyes to watch the variegated fur slipping between her fingertips. “What did you make of Mrs. Cavanaugh, Mama?”

  Lady Cranston stabbed her needle into the heart of a poppy. “She is not a lady.”

  Sophia smiled. “You hold an exceedingly narrow viewpoint as far as ladies are concerned, Mama. Not infrequently, even those in the highest echelons do not meet your stringent criteria. How does she fall short?”

  Her mother sniffed. “Her hair is a most unlikely shade of vermillion.”

  Sophia’s lips twitched. “Why, that is almost a criminal offence, Mama.”

  Her mother’s narrowed glance held disdain. “Her cheeks are over-rouged. She is brash and yet obsequious. She called Vanessa ‘Your Highness’.”

  “Shocking.” Sophia tugged the cat’s ears. After a small hesitation she asked, “Did you think she was pretty?”

  “She is exquisitely pretty but I do not think she is well-matched to her husband at all. He may have the misfortune to be born an American, but he is clearly a gentleman whereas she—”

  Pausing at the stitching she had just resumed, she examined Sophia with a penetrating stare, then lifted the needle and pointed the sharp end towards her daughter. “Ho-ho. Do not harbor any thoughts in that direction, Sophia. Whatever the nature of his wife, Mr. Cavanaugh is a married man and you will soon be his sister-in-law. While a certain amount of leeway is acceptable, you would be more than foolish to become entangled in such a ménage.”

  Sophia ran her fingers along the tabby’s spine, admiring the whorls of subtle shades in the cat’s fur. “He admired my paintings,” she said quietly.

  Lady Cranston raised her eyes from her work and waited for Sophia to continue.

  “He said they were equal, even superior to Madame Le Brun’s and Mrs. Cosway’s. He offered to purchase the piece I’ve been working on of Vanessa and baby Ash, and he spoke of a commission. His appraisal was very encouraging.”

  “Perhaps he would like you to paint a portrait of his wife,” said Lady Cranston with genuine surprise. “And, although Vanessa has kindly offered to frank your trousseau, it would not be inappropriate, Sophia, for you to contribute pin money.”

  “Is portraiture a respectable occupation for a lady then, Mama?” Sophia could not help but spike her words with a little acid. As if her mood had transferred itself to her fingers, the cat unsheathed her claws and inserted them into Sophia’s knee through the fabric of her gown.

  “For a married woman I suppose it is not too far out of the ordinary,” said Mama dubiously.

  “Madame Le Brun achieved the status of official portraitist to Marie Antoinette,” said Sophia with feeling.

  Her mother curled her lip. “And look how that ended.” She pulled the thread taut, tied a knot and snipped the strand with a minute pair of silver scissors. “I am not unsympathetic to your aspirations, Sophia, but you must remember Madame Le Brun was supported by her husband and family.”

  She leaned forward and tapped Sophia’s knee. “By all means pursue your hobby when you are married to Freddy. You will have no need to, but earn yourself a little pin money if it pleases you.”

  Sophia experienced a fierce longing for Tom Broadworth, who would never have relegated the hours she spent in her atelier to the status of a ‘hobby’. She loved Mama dearly but there were some levels on which they simply did not connect. Mr. Cavanaugh on the other hand…

  With a hollow feeling that she could not dismiss but thought fresh air might assuage, she lifted the cat from her knee and deposited her onto the floor. “It has been an eventful day, Mama. Please excuse me. I should like to walk in the garden and then rest in my room before dinner.”

  Ignoring the tabby’s injured stare and her Mama’ anxious expression, for it was not Sophia’s habit to rest during the day, she stood, took up a paisley shawl from the seat beside her and left the room, closing the door quietly on the sound of her mother’s resigned sigh as she returned to work implacably on Sophia’s trousseau.

  * * *

  By the time she was ready to retire that evening, the sky was clear but a fitful bree
ze lent an unpredictable air to the night. The moon hung behind the topmost branches of a stand of hilltop beech, spreading sheets of jagged light across her bedchamber. She set her candle on the bedstand without blowing it out, climbed into bed and lay on her back with her hands behind her head, wondering how she could influence the remaining years of her life.

  Candlelight flickered against the walls. In the end the fretful shadows and her own restlessness overcame her. She slipped out of bed, wrapped herself in the coverlet and crossed the room to the high mullioned windows. Keeping a hold of the quilt with one hand, she unlatched a window, pushed it open and dragged in a lungful of sweet night air.

  The daphne bushes beneath her windows added a lemony tang to the night’s earthy odor. An owl hooted from the overgrown arbor and a fox slipped away through the shrubbery. The glossy leaves silvered as he entered, and blended back into the shadows when he disappeared, leaving no hint of his passing.

  When Annabelle had been in Switzerland, Sophia had stood so at her window each night and prayed for her sister to heal. She’d imagined snow-capped mountains rising like pointed teeth against the dark night, shadows in the valleys lying crisp and sharp and Annabelle tucked up in bed cozy and warm and gaining her strength as each day went by.

  Now, she shivered and drew the comforter closer. She could not think of her sister without pain together with a weight of responsibility and a burden of guilt she had never been able to lighten. She stared out towards the shadowy woods in the distance. Her bare feet were icy, the thin carpet offering little protection against the stone floor. She knew she should marry Freddy, but at the same time, she dreaded being squeezed into a soulless existence that would, piece by piece, simply wring her out.

  Mr. Cavanaugh’s image sprang to mind. She sucked in a breath, imagining what a life lived at his side might be like, but it was not long before she shunted these thoughts aside. Voluptuous though they were, she could not allow them to sway her. She had not needed her mother’s warning to understand the impenetrable barrier between them.