BEATRICE
The Tipton Hollow Series
Book Two
By
Rebecca King
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
COMING SOON …….
OTHER BOOKS BY REBECCA KING
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
This book is a work of fiction. As such, the details relating to plant cultivation, in particular the specific types of orchids named within are purely fictitious and bear no resemblance to any actual living plants, or the real cultivation process of orchids.
Orchids are commonly known as a flowering plant but within this book have been called plants. Thank you.
Rebecca
Cover Design by Melody Simmons from eBookindiecovers.
CHAPTER ONE
Beatrice Northolt placed the morning newspaper back onto the table and stared despondently at the room around her. The austere dining room was huge, and furnished with heavy brocade drapes which lined the tall windows at the front of the house a little too well, and stopped nearly all of the daylight from reaching the huge oak dining table in the centre of the room. She studied the glossy surface of the table before her, which could quite comfortably seat twenty people, and shook her head at the waste. Even when her Uncle Matthew had been alive they had never used all of the seating because they had never entertained anyone. Now that she was all alone, it didn’t seem necessary to have such a huge table in the house. It was hardly as though she entertained large numbers of people herself and, when her friends did call around to see her, they usually shared tea in the sitting room.
The silence within the room was broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantle, and the chink of her tea cup when she put it back into its saucer. It was so quiet that she could almost hear herself breathing, and it was most disconcerting. Even Mrs Partridge, Maud, had stopped clattering the pots and pans in the kitchen, and had inadvertently added to the Beatrice’s sense of isolation.
Since her Uncle Matthew had passed away several months ago, Beatrice had rattled around the house with nothing to do but while away the hours until it was time to go to bed again. Even with the house now her own, and more money in the bank than she knew how to spend, there seemed to be nothing to fulfil her existence. There was nothing to look forward to; nowhere to go, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do to change that. She didn’t want to travel. She had everything she needed. What else was there?
The walls of Brantley Manor seemed to close in on her with each day that passed, and she knew that she was going to go quietly mad if her circumstances didn’t start to change soon, but how could they change when she didn’t know what she wanted? What could she do with her life?
“I have to get out of here,” she muttered and pushed out of her chair. She threw her napkin onto the table and hurried out of the room.
It was a relief to be able to get outside, into the fresh air. She took a deep breath of the crisp summertime air and savoured the sunlight on her face while she listened to the birds chirping happily in the trees at the end of the garden. The beautiful lawns that surrounded her were festooned with a vast array of flora and fauna; the tantalising aroma of which scented the air sweetly with a gentle hint of floral elegance.
She took a moment to wander around in a vague circle but, unlike other occasions when she had sought sanctuary in the garden to ease her troubled thoughts, this time her mind wouldn’t settle. In spite of the opulent grandeur of her surroundings, the feeling of discontent that weighed so heavily on her shoulders didn’t lift. She turned to look back at the house but could find no pride or contentment in the fact that the huge manor house was hers. Indeed, the thought of going back inside filled her with a sense of foreboding that brought a frown to her beautiful face.
She wasn’t sure if the restless need to get out of the house, and into the morning sunshine, had anything to do with the recent murders of two members of the now defunct Psychic Circle, or the fact that she had recently witnessed her best friend, Harriett, marry the man of her dreams. One thing she did know was that seeing Harriett so happy, and adored by her husband, had made Beatrice realise just how much she was missing out on herself.
You are just missing Uncle Matthew, that’s all, Beatrice thought sensibly, and blocked out the small voice that warned her that wasn’t the cause of her current problem either.
She sighed listlessly and looked around her at the brilliant myriad colours that littered the borders. She then looked down at her rather plain dress, and sighed in disgust. If she was honest, she felt so uninteresting and boring that she knew it was going to take a miracle to find any man who would look twice at someone as insipid as her.
Putting the issue of her rather uninspiring clothing aside, she turned her attention with the true course of her malady. She was bored; totally, completely, and unutterably bored, with everything; bored with having nothing to do with her life; bored at living all by herself; bored with doing the same thing day after day after day. Bored. Bored. Bored.
To put it frankly, she was fed up with her life and wanted something new; something exciting, to happen to her so she could throw off the shackles of responsibility and just enjoy herself for a change.
“Oh Lord, not again,” she whispered when the sudden peel of church bells in the distance shattered the silence. She lifted her skirts so she could hurry to the house just that little bit quicker, and cursed her folly for not having kept a closer eye on the time.
“Beatrice!” Maud called.
“Coming,” Beatrice replied breathlessly as she swept through the back door and slammed it behind her. She didn’t stop though, and hurried through the kitchen with the sound of the bolts sliding across the door echoing in her ears.
In the front hallway she hurriedly drew her shawl around her shoulders and picked up her hymn book before she turned to the housekeeper.
“I’m ready,” she gasped.
“It’s only one morning dear,” Maud reminded her gently when she saw the dread Beatrice couldn’t hide.
“I know it is. I don’t know why I bother going to church at all really. I mean, I spend so much time avoiding the pointed stares of the old battle-axes that I completely forget to listen to the service, and merely count the minutes until I can get out of there,” Beatrice sighed and led the way out of the door. “I only got into the habit of going because Uncle Matthew insisted on it,” she added as they made their way down the driveway.
“Well, we should just be in time for service, if we hurry a little, so don’t you fret. It will be over soon and then you can get on with your day,” Maud replied quietly.
“But I do fret, Maud. The last time we were late, the vicar made a pointed reference to tardiness in his sermon and I felt the acrimonious gazes of half the congregation for the entire time we were there.”
“You exaggerate,” Maud replied, although lengthened her stride a little, just in case. She wouldn’t say as much to Beatrice, but that particular Sunday service stood out in her memory too, and wasn’t something she wanted to repeat either.
Beatrice merely looked at her and lifted her brows. She only wished it was an exaggeration, but they both knew that it wasn’t. She would never say so to Maud, but it wasn’t just the condescension of the congreg
ation that bothered her. It was the rather stern gaze of one particular person who, for reasons only known to himself, seemed to have taken a keen dislike to her.
Benedict Addison.
She had no idea what his problem was but it had become something of a weekly routine whereby they seemed to spend the Sunday service trying to ignore each other’s presence, only to fail miserably.
The journey to church was over far too quickly as far as Beatrice was concerned and, although they weren’t late, they both noticed the vicar look rather pointedly at his fob-watch as they approached the front door. Neither of them stopped to speak to the man, and instead kept their gazes averted while they hurried inside.
As they made their way down the aisle toward the family pew, Beatrice struggled to keep her gaze on the floor, and away from him, but she knew he was there; watching as usual. Benedict Addison: the only person in Tipton Hollow who really seemed to dislike her.
“Just in the nick of time,” Maud whispered as she took a seat.
“Thank heavens,” Beatrice replied in hushed tones as she sidled into the pew beside her. Although it went against etiquette for Maud to share the Northolt family pew, Beatrice considered her to be more of a personal friend than a housekeeper, and insisted on them sitting together.
“I don’t know what his problem is, we aren’t even late,” Maud grumbled as she put her hymn book down and removed her shawl.
“He doesn’t need a reason to judge,” Beatrice whispered and gave the housekeeper a sideways glance.
“I meant to tell you that I am going to go around to my friend Esther’s house after the service because I need to pick up a bag of donations for the rummage sale on Friday,” Maud whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
“That’s fine. There is no rush, so take your time. I will just have some pie before the fire for tea,” Beatrice replied in a voice that was no louder than a breath.
While she waited for the service to start, she felt his gaze on her. At first she tried to ignore it but, when she struggled not to squirm, lifted her head and stared defiantly back at him. Her stomach flipped; then dropped to her toes when their eyes met.
There was no anger in the depths of his brown eyes; no hatred; disgust or anger; just a quiet watchfulness that seemed to probe far too intensely, and see far too much. Why was he staring at her? What did he want? He didn’t smile or acknowledge her with a nod, just locked his gaze on her in that rather intense way, and brought forth an awareness of his raw masculinity that left her more than a little shaken.
Ben studied the way the sunlight shone through the stained glass window behind her, and bathed her hair in several shades of copper and gold. Her dark brown tresses were swept away from her face in a rather severe fashion, but it didn’t detract from her beauty. Instead, it seemed to emphasise her high cheek bones, and beautiful sky blue eyes which were slightly up-tilted at the corners, and accompanied by the longest lashes he had ever seen on anyone.
If it wasn’t for the presence of Beatrice Northolt at the service each Sunday, Ben wouldn’t be there at all. She was by far the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in his life and, if she didn’t always look so bloody terrified of him, he would have taken the opportunity to get to know her long before now. To his consternation, every time he got anywhere near her, she always hurried in the opposite direction as though he was about to ravage her and didn’t bother to stop to talk, or even say ‘hello’ to him.
As far as he was aware he had never done anything that should worry her in any way, or make her feel threatened by him. Now, as a result of her disconcerting behaviour, he was left with no alternative but attend the blasted church each Sunday just to be able to sit opposite her, and stare at her like some love-sick fool while he waited for that perfect opportunity to engage her in conversation.
If only he could just break down some of those barriers of hers, he knew that they would get on well. He had no idea how he knew, he just did. If only the good Lord would take pity on him and give him the opportunity to change her opinion of him, he knew that he could have the kind of future he wanted, with Beatrice.
Somehow though, from the way she was studiously trying to avoid his gaze, he didn’t think that the good Lord was listening.
Eventually, the service was over. He watched in consternation as Beatrice and Maud hurriedly left their pew and swept down the aisle without a backward look, and sighed at another opportunity lost. Ben wondered if she would glance back into the church, just once, before she left and was more than a little disappointed when she didn’t. What was a man supposed to do in such restricted circumstances? How was he supposed to engage her in conversation when she was the last to arrive and the first to leave?
It is time to go back to the drawing board and think of something else, he muttered to himself with a sigh, and left his pew to follow the congregation out of the church.
“I will see you later, my dear,” Maud whispered to Beatrice once they were outside.
“See you later,” Beatrice replied. Rather than stop to talk to the vicar, Beatrice merely nodded vaguely in his direction and dipped her head as she hurried past. She saw him open his mouth to speak but didn’t wait around to hear what he had to say. The man was hardly the most affable vicar at the best of times, and the last time she had been foolhardy enough to converse with him, she had received a lecture on judgement and tardiness that had made her hurry home just that little bit quicker.
Ben watched her turn out of the graveyard and hurry down the lane as though the hounds from Hell nipped at her heels.
If you hurry after her, you may just able to catch up with her and engage her in conversation while you walk her home, Ben thought with a sigh. It was a thought, but it might just work.
With that in mind, and no other opportunities on the horizon, he lengthened his stride and made his way down the path after her. Unfortunately, he had taken no more than a few steps before he was forced to stop by a rather shrill voice that shattered the silence.
“Mr Addison? Hello? Mr Addison? Might I have a word with you?”
Ben winced at the high-pitched, autocratic demand from a woman behind him and sighed in disgust. He threw a regretful look at Beatrice’s rapidly retreating back and reluctantly turned around. Given that nearly everyone in the churchyard was looking at him, he was forced to wait for Mrs Underwick to lumber along the path toward him. Unfortunately, manners dictated that he shouldn’t be rude to the woman; however there was nothing to say that he had to be sociable to one of Tipton Hollow’s most notoriously spiteful gossips either.
“Mrs Underwick,” he sighed, with no hint of enthusiasm. “How might I assist you today?”
“Thank heavens you heard me,” Mrs Underwick gasped. She threw him a grateful look as she drew her heavy frame to a stop before him.
To his consternation, she placed a rather sweaty hand on his forearm and leaned heavily against him while she gasped for breath. A dark scowl settled over his features at the woman’s unwelcome familiarity but, however much he wanted to, he daren’t jerk his hand away and force her to stand on her own two feet. From the look of the beads of sweat already dotted along her brow, and the ruddy colour of her cheeks, she looked as though she would just keel right over. The last thing he wanted was to have to pick her large backside off the church path and wait for her to recover, much less carry her ample girth home.
He cast a worried look at the churchyard gate and shifted from one foot to the other while he waited.
“What do you want, Mrs Underwick?” Ben growled when the woman made no attempt to speak for several long minutes, and merely stood opening and closing her mouth like a stranded fish.
“I just wanted to have quick word with you,” Mrs Underwick murmured a bit quieter than before. She glanced around them so furtively that Ben felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He just knew that he wasn’t going to like what the woman had to say but, without just storming rudely off and ignoring her, he had to listen. “I j
ust wanted to forewarn you about the new Tipton Hollow Circle,” she gasped.
“The Psychic Circle no longer exists, Mrs Underwick. It was disbanded after the clairvoyants were arrested. Do you not know that already?” he drawled mockingly, knowing that she was probably one of the main gossips who had spread the news.
“Of course I do,” she snapped officiously. When she saw Ben’s brows lift querulously, she softened her gaze and glanced cautiously around them again. “I have it on good authority that the same group of people who were involved with the psychics have started a new Circle, and are getting involved in things that don’t concern them. I just wanted to warn you that if they do approach you for donations, don’t trust their endeavours. They are a very shady bunch of people, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you, Mrs Underwick,” Ben growled. He dropped his hand but Mrs Underwick’s gnarled fingers refused to release their hold on his now crumpled jacket. He glared down at her hand and shifted, but she refused to take the hint.
“They are into philanthropy now, I hear. There are persons who shall not be named,” she glanced around as though the said ‘persons who shall not be named’ were about to pop out from behind the gravestones, “who have since discovered that they are involving themselves in people’s lives, and it isn’t welcome. They are making a lot of people very angry. I just wanted to warn you in case you are asked to donate to their cause. They don’t operate on behalf of Tipton Hollow and I, for one, shall not donate anything to the things they get themselves involved with.” She glanced around them and slapped her mouth closed several more times before she leaned forward with yet more of her juicy gossip. “You know what happened the last time this group got themselves involved in anything, don’t you? Two –” she shoved two fingers up, practically under his nose, “- two deaths. Poor Mr Montague and Miss Haversham had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Of course that lot,” she nodded in Beatrice’s direction, “came away scot free. It’s a scandal, I tell you. I would strongly advise you not to get involved in their shenanigans.”
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