by Anne Herries
study, working on one of his inventions—the marvellous, wholly useless objects he was forever
wasting his time on, which he believed were going to restore his fortune one day. 'I think you were
worried, Nan. Poor, dear Papa can hardly have noticed. Now, if I were not here for dinner—then
he might begin to worry. Especially if it meant waiting for his meal.'
'Beatrice!' Nan scolded. 'Now that is unkind in you. I know your humour, my dear—but it sounds
harsh in a young woman to be so cynical. It is little wonder that...' She broke off, biting her lip as
she saw the look in her darling's eyes.
'Yes, I know I have driven them all away—all my suitors,' Beatrice said ruefully. 'I really should
have taken Squire Rush, shouldn't I? He has three thousand a year, I dare say...but he has buried
three wives and that brood of his was really too much!'
'There were others,' her aunt said. Mrs Nancy Willow was a widow in her early forties: a plump,
comfortable, loving woman, who was extremely fond of her eldest niece. She had come to her
brother's house only after her husband (a soldier turned adventurer) had died of a fever. She
sometimes thought it would have been better if she had been there before her lovely but slightly
bird-brained sister-in-law had died, but she and Eddie had been in India at the time. 'I understand
there was a suitable admirer once...'
'And who told you that, aunt?'
Nan frowned. Beatrice rarely called her 'aunt' in just that way: she was clearly touching on a sore
place.
'Well, well, it doesn't matter,' she said. 'But should another suitable young man come along...'
'I could not leave Papa,' Beatrice said at once. 'Besides, it will not happen. I am nearly at my last
prayers.'
'Now that you are not!' Nan said. 'You have many qualities, Beatrice. A discerning man would
know that the minute he laid eyes on you...'
'...and fall instantly in love with me?' Beatrice said, amused by her aunt's romantic notions. 'Only
find me this suitor, Nan dearest—and, if he is not too dim-witted, which I think he may have to be,
I will engage to do my best to snare him.'
'You and your wicked, wicked tongue,' her aunt said, smiling even as she shook her head. 'And as
for not being able to leave your papa—you know that is not so. You were obliged to give up all
thoughts of marriage when your mama fell ill. To have left your father then would have been
careless in you—but my brother has been kind enough to offer me a home for the rest of my life...'
'Unless you receive an offer of marriage, Nan!'
Her aunt pulled a wry face. 'I could not be tempted. I am comfortable here, and here I shall stay.
Since it does not take two of us to run this house, you are free to do as you wish...'
'Yes, I see that it makes a difference...' Beatrice looked serious. 'It might be better if I started to
look for a position'..Papa's funds are limited, and since...'
'He would never hear of it, and nor should I,' declared Nan roundly. 'If anyone should look
elsewhere, it must be me.'
'No!' Beatrice spoke quickly. She had been afraid her aunt would take that attitude, which was
why she had not spoken her thoughts aloud before this. 'You do not understand, Nan. I am not
speaking of hiring myself out as a governess or a companion...I would only leave here if I could
go back to Mrs Guarding's school as a teacher.'
Her aunt stared at her, eyes narrowing. 'Is that why you have been so long this afternoon?'
'No, indeed, for I have not yet spoken to Mrs Guarding about my idea. I went to see Ghislaine de
Champlain, who, as I told you, is the French mistress there. We spent some time talking, and then
had tea together in her room, which overlooks the river. It really was most pleasant.' .
'You speak of Mademoiselle Champlain often— and of the time you spent at the school,' Nan said.
'Would it really make you happy to return there, dearest?'
'Yes, I think so,' Beatrice replied, smothering a sigh. It wasn't that she was unhappy with her life in
her father's house, but she sometimes longed for some stimulating company—a friend she could
sharpen her wits on now and then without feeling that she was either hurting or bewildering that
friend.
She briefly remembered her long-dashed hopes, which had been destroyed When she was a girl of
nineteen—just the same age as her sister was now!— but their situations had been very different.
Olivia was in London enjoying a brilliant season, and engaged to one of the best 'catches' of the
Season. For Beatrice there had been no Season, and only one suitor she might have taken—if he
had asked. However, after toying with her hopes and affections for a whole month one summer, he
had taken himself back off to London and proposed to an heiress!
'Pray do not look so sad, my love,' Nan said. 'Come, sit by the fire and let me dry your poor feet.
You look as if you have had a tumble in the mud!'
'As a matter of fact, I have,' Beatrice said, forgetting her disappointments as she recalled what had
happened to her that evening. 'I walked home through the Abbey grounds, Nan.'
'You never did!' Nan looked horrified. 'Never say that monster attacked you?'
'In a way,' Beatrice replied, then shook her head as Nan looked fit to faint. 'Oh, nothing like that. I
heard something...a scream, I think...then this horse and rider came up out of the darkness and I
was forced to throw myself out of his path. Had I not done so, I must have been crushed beneath
the hooves of the horse. I am sure it was the Marquis himself, and in a fearful mood.'
Nan crossed herself instinctively. Neither she nor any member of her family were Catholics, but in
a matter such as this, the action could be very comforting.
Beatrice laughed as she saw her aunt's reaction. 'I must admit to doing much the same as you when
I heard the scream,' she admitted. 'It was the most horrifying sound imaginable...' She broke off as
their one little maid came into the room, carrying a silver salver. 'Yes, Lily—what is it?'
'Bellows fetched this letter for you from the receiving office this afternoon, Miss Roade. It's from
London.'
'Then it must be from Olivia,' Beatrice said, feeling a flicker of excitement. 'Perhaps it is an
invitation to the wedding at last.'
The longcase clock in the hall was striking the hour of five as Beatrice took the sealed packet from
her servant.
Beatrice had been anxiously awaiting the invitation since learning from her sister that she was
about to become engaged to Lord Ravensden, the wealthy Lord Burton's heir. Not that Lord
Burton's wealth was of any interest to his heir, who, according to rumour, already had far more
money than any one person could possibly need.
Olivia had been adopted by their rich relatives when she was a child. She had been loved and
petted by them ever since, living a very different life from her elder sister, who had been
overlooked by Lord and Lady Burton when they agreed to take one of the children as their own.
The sisters' parting had devastated Beatrice, who, being the elder, had understood what was
happening, and why. She had kept in touch by letter since the day Olivia was taken away, but they
had met only twice since then, when her mother's sister-in-law had brought Olivia on brief visits.
Having seen the engagement announced in The Times, which her papa continued to
subscribe to
despite his meagre funds, Beatrice had expected to hear from her sister almost daily, and was
beginning to think she was to be left out of the celebrations.
She ripped the small packet open eagerly, then read its contents three times before she could
believe what she was seeing. It was not possible! Olivia must be funning her...surely she must? If
this was not a jest...it did not bear thinking of!
'Is something the matter?' asked Nan. 'You look upset, Beatrice. Has something happened to your
sister?'
'It is most distressing,' Beatrice said, sounding as shocked as she felt. 'I cannot believe this, Nan.
Olivia writes to tell me that she will not now be marrying Lord Ravensden. She has decided she
cannot like him sufficiently...and has told him of her decision.'
'You mean she has jilted him?' Nan stared at her in dismay. 'How could she? She will be ruined.
Has she no idea of the consequences of her actions?'
'I think she must have.' Beatrice gave a little cry of distress as she read over the page something
she had missed earlier. 'Oh, no! This is the most terrible news. Lord and Lady Burton
have...disowned her. They say she has disgraced them, and they will no longer harbour a viper in
their home...'
'That is a little harsh, is it not?' Nan wrinkled her brow. 'What she has done is wrong, no one
could deny that—but I should imagine Olivia must have her reasons. She would not do such a
thing out of caprice—would she?'
'No, of course not,' Beatrice defended her sister loyally. 'We do not know each other well—but I
am sure she is not so cruel.'
'What can have prevailed upon her to accept him if she did not mean to go through with the
marriage?' Nan asked, shaking her head in wonder. Jilting one's fiancé was not something to be
undertaken lightly— and a man as rich as Lord Ravensden into the bargain!
'She says she has realised that she cannot be happy as his wife,' Beatrice said, frowning over her
sister's hurried scrawl. 'And that she was cruelly deceived in his feelings for her.'
'What will she do now?'
'Lord Burton has told her she has one week to leave his house—so she asks if she may come here.'
'Come here?' Nan stared at her in dismay. 'Does she realise how we go on here? She will find it
very different to what she has been used to, Beatrice.'
'Yes, I fear she will,' Beatrice replied. 'However, I shall speak to Papa at once, and then, if he
agrees, I shall write and tell her she is welcome in this house.'
'My brother will agree to whatever you suggest,' Nan said a little wryly. 'You must know that?'
Beatrice smiled, knowing that she always without fail managed to twist her father round her
finger. He could refuse her nothing, for the simple reason that he was able to give her very little.
Fortunately, Beatrice had a tiny allowance of her own, which came to her directly from a bequest
left to her by her maternal grandmother, Lady Anne Smith.
Nan had given her a towel to dry herself, and Beatrice had used it to good effect. Her long hair
was wild about her face, gleaming with reddish gold lights and giving her a natural beauty she had
never noticed for herself. She handed the towel back to her aunt, and looked down at herself. Her
gown was disgraceful, but her dear, forgetful papa would probably never notice.
'You realise Olivia will be an added burden on your father's slender income?' Nan warned. 'You
have little enough for yourself as it is.'
'My sister will be destitute if we do not take her in,' Beatrice replied, frowning. 'I do not know
whether they have cast her off without a penny—but it sounds as if they may have done so. It
would be cruel indeed of me if I were to refuse to let her shelter in her own home.'
'Yes, and something you could never do,' Nan said warmly. 'I have no objections, my love. I only
wish you to think before you leap—unlike my poor brother.'
'We shall manage,' Beatrice said, and left her aunt with a smile.
The smile was wiped out the instant she left the room. She had not mentioned anything to Nan,
because it was still not clear to her exactly what her sister's rather terse words had meant—but
clearly Lord Ravensden was not a man Olivia could love or respect. Indeed, if Beatrice was not
mistaken, he was a hard, ruthless man who cared for little else but wealth and duty.
He had had the cold-hearted effrontery to tell one of his friends that he was marrying to oblige
Lord Burton. Since the Burtons had no children of their own, the title and fortune would pass by
entail to a distant cousin of Lord Burton. They had felt this was a little unfair on the daughter they
had adopted, and so made their wishes known to Lord Burton's heir: it would please them if he
were to marry the girl they had lavished with affection since she came to them.
Apparently, Lord Ravensden had proposed to Olivia, giving her the impression that he cared for
her—and it was only by accident that she had learned the truth. It must have distressed her deeply!
No wonder she had declared herself unable to love him. If Beatrice were not much mistaken, it
would push any woman to the limits to find a place in her heart for such an uncaring man.
She wished that she might have him at her mercy for five minutes! It would give her the greatest
pleasure to tell him exactly what she thought of him.
Chapter Two
Beatrice fought her rising temper. She was slow to anger, but when something offended her strong
sense of justice—as it did now—she could be awesome in her fury.
'If I could but get my hands on him!' she muttered furiously. 'He should see how it feels to be
treated so harshly. I should make him suffer as he makes my poor sister.'
No, no, this would not do! She must appear calm and cheerful when speaking to Papa. He had so
many worries, the poor darling. This burden must not be allowed to fall on his shoulders. As for
the added strain on his slender income...well, it made the idea of her becoming a teacher at Mrs
Guarding's school even more necessary. If she could support herself, her father would be able to
spare a few guineas a year for Olivia to dress herself decently—though not, her sister feared, in
the manner to which she had become accustomed.
Beatrice paused outside the door to her father's study, then knocked and walked in without waiting
for an answer. It would have done her little good to wait. Mr Roade was engrossed in the sets of
charts and figures on his desk, and would not have heard her.
Like many men of the time, he was fascinated with the sciences and the invention of all kinds of
ingenious devices. Mr Roade was a great admirer of James Watt, who had invented the
miraculous steam engine, which had begun to be used in so many different ways. And, of course,
Mr Robert Fulton, the American, who had first shown his splendid steam boat on the Seine in
France in 1803. Bertram Roade was certain that his own designs would one day make him a great
deal of money.
'Papa...' Beatrice said, walking up to glance over his shoulder. He was working on an ingenious
design for a fireplace that would heat a water tank fitted behind it and provide a constant supply of
hot water for the household. It was a splendid idea, if only it would work. Unfortunately, the last
time her father had persuaded someone to manufacture the device for him, it had overheated and
&
nbsp; blown apart, causing a great deal of damage and costing more than a hundred pounds, both to
repair the hole in the kitchen wall and to repay the money invested by an outraged partner. Money
they could ill afford.
'May I speak with you a moment?'
'I've nearly got the puzzle' solved,' Mr Roade replied, not having heard her. 'I'm sure I know why it
exploded last time...you see the air became too hot and there was nowhere for it to escape. Now,
if I had a valve which let out the steam before it built up...'
'Yes, Papa, I'm sure you are right.'
Mr Roade looked up. Beatrice was usually ready to argue his theories with him; he was none too
sure that his most recent was correct, and had hoped to discuss it with her.
'You wanted to talk to me, my dear?' His mild eyes blinked at her from behind the gold-rimmed
spectacles that were forever in danger of falling off his nose. 'It isn't time for dinner—is it?'
'No, Papa, not quite. I came to see you about another matter.' She took a deep breath. 'Olivia
wishes to come and stay with us. I would like your permission to write and tell her she will be
welcome here for as long as she wishes.'
'Olivia...your sister?' He wrinkled his brow, as if searching for something he knew he must have
forgotten. A smile broke through as he remembered. 'Ah yes, she is to be married. No doubt she
wishes for a chance to have a little talk with her sister before her wedding.'
'No, Papa. It isn't quite like that. For reasons Olivia will make clear to us, she has decided not to
marry Lord Ravensden. She wants to come and live here.'
'Are you sure you have that right, m'dear?' Mr Roade looked bewildered. 'I thought it was a
splendid match—the man's as rich as Midas, ain't he?'
'That is a very apt description, Father. For if you remember, Midas was the King of Phrygia
whose touch turned all to gold, and on whom Apollo bestowed the ears of an ass. Lord Ravensden
must be a fool to have turned Olivia against him, but it seems, like that ancient king, he cares more
for gold than the sweetness of a woman's touch.'
'Must be a fool then,' sighed a man who had loved his wife too much. 'Olivia is better off without
him. Write at once and tell her we shall be delighted to have her home. Never did think it was a