The Spinster and the Earl

by Beverly Adam

  “Are you feeling well, my dear?” she asked from across the table as a footman collected the still full plate. “I’ve noticed that your cheeks have been frequently flush of late. Perhaps you caught a chill when you were out hunting today with your father?”

  “No. I’m feeling quite the thing, Auntie.” The niece sighed, looking with mooncalf eyes in the direction of the earl who sat at the opposite end of the table. “You needn’t concern yourself with me,” she reiterated, merely glancing at the beef pudding the footman set in front of her.

  “If you are certain,” answered Aunt Agnes, glancing slyly in the direction of the most eligible bachelor in the room. The earl was at that very moment lifting his crystal goblet of wine in a silent toast to her niece.

  Beatrice, a radiant smile on her face, lifted hers in return.

  “Quite fine,” she replied blithely, sipping her wine, never taking her smiling eyes away from that of his.

  “Oh,” her aunt beamed with delight, “I’m so relieved to hear it, my dear.”

  But a fairy tale ending was not how the evening concluded. After dinner, it had cut Beatrice to the quick to see Lady Powers try once more to monopolize the earl’s attentions. The dasher’s full white arms stuck to the earl’s coat sleeve as if she had sewn herself to him. It had been a near impossibility for Beatrice to enjoy the gifted tenor they had hired from Dublin for the musical entertainment they had planned. She was too occupied by the other lady’s presence.

  The dapper tenor, stood before the assembly with an elegant, pointed beard and mustache. He had been requested to sing some Irish ballads. Both she and the earl thought that it would be a fine treat for their English guests, who had never heard many of the songs before.

  When Master O’Shaunasee sang a haunting, love ballad in ancient Irish, tears sprang into her eyes. She felt deep within herself a tender swelling of emotions, as if the gentleman had brought forth the words written over two hundred years before expressly for her. It made her sad and wistful for the earl. She had to admit to herself she had felt attracted to him from the first, when they met in the bog and his body had brushed up against hers, sparking an ember in her heart she had thought would never catch flame. It continued to burn until finally it culminated with their lovemaking. Her heart had known all along, but she had denied what it told her, that she was in love.

  She wanted to believe he loved her. That somehow he knew of the burgeoning love she felt for him. But the past few days had made it difficult for her to speak to him and they had not been alone since the blissful moment they shared together in the tiny cottage. She felt tears of frustration well in her eyes as she yearned to be alone with him, to confide her love.

  “Here, Bea’,” whispered her aunt, handing her a handkerchief when the last note had faded away. A few tears glistened in her own clear, gray eyes.

  “Dearee me,” the old lady said, wiping them away. “That gentleman could sing in a choir of angels.”

  “Aye, Auntie.” The niece nodded, wiping her own. “Master O’Shaunasee’s voice is a gift from God.”

  At the end of the recital, the usually reserved crowd of predominantly English listeners thunderously applauded the thin, dapper Irishman before them. They stomped the floorboards with their enthusiasm for more. The tenor obliged and sang another song, this one a merry tune. It was accompanied by the billows of the Irish pipe and required the clapping of hands in rhythmic unison.

  Afterwards, many of the titled guests jostled forwards vying for a moment with the talented performer, trying to entice the singer to come to London. Invitations were given for him to visit their salons and perform there as their own special prodigy.

  Master O’Shaunasee, with great finesse, refused their offers. He replied that he preferred living in the only capitol he had ever wanted to know as home, Dublin.

  “Besides,” he smiled at the admiring ladies, twirling his waxed mustache, “I could never abandon m’wife and five wee bairns despite the great honor of your delightful company.”

  * * *

  Beatrice felt a hand on her shoulder. It was the earl. His dark eyes looked down at her. “I must speak with you,” he whispered urgently into her ear.

  “Where?”

  “The south terrace. Meet me there in five minutes.”

  She nodded agreement, as the young gentleman she had sent to fetch her a glass of punch appeared by her side.

  Although it was early spring, the wind off the lake was not as chilling as it might have been. It gently brushed against her skirts as she made her way to the terrace. She wore her favorite shawl over her shoulders, its long, fringed ends dangling down her back. Her evening gown of white silk gave her the appearance of a bride.

  “By Jupiter!” the earl said as he stepped out of the shadow of a willow tree where he had been silently observing her approach. “You put the very stars in the heavens to shame tonight, my dear Lady Beatrice.”

  She smiled, pleased by the compliment, enjoying the gleam of open admiration on his face as he stared at her.

  She had received many fulsome compliments from her entourage of admirers concerning aspects of her beauty. Her various body parts had been eulogized and rhapsodized in such verse and rhyme that even that old bard, Shakespeare, would have been pleased. But none of these fawning compliments meant as much to her as the words the earl had just said. For she knew that they were spoken sincerely.

  She stepped into his arms then, contentedly sighing as he held her there. The sparkling moonlight glittered off the water below and bright, silver stars above shone benevolently upon them. She rested her head against his chest.

  “Lady Beatrice,” he said, his scar crinkling into his smile. “The time for you to give me your answer has come. I have, I believe, been most patient in that respect. Indeed you must congratulate me for not tearing into young Lord Reginald Fortescue’s hide the other day for daring to take my betrothed out alone on the lake. I held myself back, behaving in the most virtuous manner for you, my dear.”

  She smiled to herself, and said in a teasing voice, “I am not yet your betrothed, sir. Pray do not forget, I’ve not yet given my answer.”

  He turned her around to face him and kissing her brow said, “Then do not keep me in suspense any longer. I must know that you are completely mine.”

  Looking into his ruggedly handsome face, the one she had grown to hold so dear since that fateful day when his horse had thrown him. She knew she must confess to him what held her back from accepting him.

  “Indeed. But I too need to know something, sir,” she said, her heart pounding with fearful dread at the response she might receive. She looked him squarely in the eye and asked plainly, “Do you love me?”

  “Do I love you?” he repeated releasing her, stunned by the question. He held her away from him so that he might see her face more clearly in the moonlight.

  He laughed shakily. “You have not gone and fallen in love with me, have you, my dear Lady Beatrice?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I have,” she murmured.

  His smile disappeared. He brushed a hand agitatedly through his hair. Her declaration of love came as an unexpected surprise.

  “I know that from the first I wanted to marry you. Both for your beauty and your intelligence,” he said, speaking honestly from his heart.

  “Yes?” she asked, urging him on.

  “Sink me,” he said, shaking his head to clear it. “I don’t know if I am in love or not.” Then he smiled, his teeth flashing in the dark, and he took her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him.

  “I have been acting like a veritable schoolboy would these past few weeks. And truth to tell, my dear, the feelings you’ve evoked in me are a far cry from that of an untried youth in his first blush of love,” he said looking back into her eyes. His own sparkled, recalling the passion she always managed to stoke in him on several occasions.

  “No, I do not know if I love you,” he admitted. “What I have come to understand about this o
bsession is that I want you to be completely and utterly mine in every sense of the word. I want you, make no mistake about it, my dear. I want you at my table and in my bed, as suits my wife and bride.”

  He looked fondly down at the intelligent woman before him, a lady who had as much business acumen as any of his male overseers. And what if she were made to see the profitable side such a match would offer? Perhaps then she could be persuaded to agree upon their marriage, realizing the benefits outweighed the more sentimental matters?

  “And through this union, when our two lands are finally joined together, we will both become more profitable, my dear, using each other’s strengths in building a secure future for our heirs. Our estates will no longer be rivals in trade, but joint ventures in the valley, working together to build a solid dynasty.” He smiled smugly down at her, thinking that that final bit of logic would turn his offer in his favor. He was mistaken.

  She sighed unhappily. His answer was not what she had hoped for. It brought no warm glow of reassurance that would melt away her fears. Fears that he wanted her only for her money. It only caused her to become further alarmed.

  She avoided looking at him. He would probably in due time forget about her and return to London. He was, it would appear from all that talk of joining lands and creating a dynasty, proposing a marriage of convenience, just like all the others.

  “A marriage of convenience, for a dynasty,” she said sadly. “Isn’t that what you’re proposing? I feel much like the goose that laid her golden eggs for the giant. I see a future, were I to marry you, where I’d become, in time, nothing more than a fascinating Irish bird caged in Your Grace’s drawing room for you to display to visitors.”

  She looked at him. She saw that he would not deny this supposition of his wanting to possess her merely to own her lands and wealth. Her heart throbbed with dull sadness. He obviously did not love her.

  “You’re famous, you know, Your Grace?” she said, the hurt evident in her trembling voice. “All of Urlingford, and probably a good deal of Dublin, is already talking of your triumph in snaring my attention. I do believe even our haughty English guests have found some source of amusement in watching the Spinster of Brightwood fall in love with their handsome earl. I’m quite certain we’ll be the topic of dinner conversations for months to come.”

  She knew that their guests had secretly been making bets amongst themselves as to whether or not their earl would win her. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the local gaming dens in Dublin and London had her and the earl’s name written on their betting sheets. She knew she had been a constant source of amusement in the past for such ridiculous betting. But whereas before she would have laughed, she now no longer found it to be very droll. It hurt.

  “My lady,” he said, trying to stop her before she destroyed the last bit of tenderness that existed between them. “I do care for you. Don’t deny my suit. You and I could be very happy together, my dear.”

  “I do not know if we would,” she said. “As you do not love me, I rather think one of us would be most unhappy.” Tears began to well in her eyes. They stung, but she refused to wipe at them. He would not see her weak with regrets.

  “They’ll say you tamed the Spinster of Brightwood Manor, you know,” she said pulling her shoulders back straight and looking him directly in the eye. “You ought to be delighted. Your well-planned strategy worked to some great effect, sir. You won my heart, but not my hand.”

  “Lady Beatrice,” he said, moving towards her, trying to think of how he could undo his dreadful blundering.

  Shaking her head, she moved away from him. She had heard enough. She felt more miserable than she had ever felt in her entire life. Her heart ached with the knowledge that he did not love her and that she had been a fool to believe that he might care deeply for her.

  She picked up her skirts, and without a word, walked to the terrace stairs. She left him standing alone in the moonlight, looking down at the water’s edge, contemplating where his second proposal had gone wrong.

  Behind the locked doors of her bedchamber, she sobbed her heart out, refusing to answer the soft knockings as her aunt pleaded to speak to her. The oak door remained firmly shut until the following morn when her maid discovered her missing from her bed.

  * * *

  The first Beatrice knew something was amiss was the moment a rough, large hand clamped itself tightly over her mouth, awakening her.

  “Don’t breathe a word,” a low, menacing voice muttered in the dark.

  She felt the sharp end of a knife pricking her exposed neck above her night shift. She tried to open her mouth and bite down upon the hand held over her, in preparation for a scream, but another sharp poke stopped her.

  “Try it and I’ll gullet your ladyship like a carp. I swear I will,” the rough voice whispered menacingly into her ear.

  Her bedchamber was pitch dark. With the exception of the low burning embers in the hearth, it contained little light. She could not make out the face of the man beside her, only his dark, burly form leaning threateningly over her.

  The smell of cheap whiskey and fish left her no doubt as to the man’s true identity. He was undoubtedly a hired mercenary, sent to either rob her of her purse, or worse . . . She shivered, suddenly afraid.

  It was not unheard of for heiresses as young as twelve to be kidnapped and ransomed, or worse—forced to marry against their will. If this were the case, she had much to fear. She knew of too many men who might be desperate enough to carry out such a villainous deed.

  “Well, my lady,” said the voice of the man holding the knife. “What will it be? Will ya cooperate or shall yer maid find ya stiff in the morning in this ’ere bed?”

  She nodded her ascent to do as he asked.

  Her life, she did not question, was in grave danger. Although it did occur to her that whoever might have paid for these men to enter her room might be vastly displeased if they killed her. With a sharp knife pointed at her throat, she wasn’t willing to take any such chances of risking the mercenary’s wrath. Listening, she heard someone else rummage through her clothes press. He muttered a curse as he stubbed his toes against the oak wood and brass hinges.

  The other mercenary dragged her out of the bed. She gave a frightened squeal as he gagged and blindfolded her. He grunted and threw her over his broad shoulders. She felt him take heavy, swaying, shuffling steps towards the open French doors leading out to the balcony.

  “Be quick, we haven’t all night,” the man whispered harshly to the one going through her things.

  She felt a cool breeze coming through the French doors. It was spring and she could smell the roses that she’d planted below, blooming in the mist.

  “Now ya better keep still,” said her abductor. “Or I’ll drop ya to the ground below to be dashed t’ tiny bits at the slightest hint of a kick.”

  She immediately stilled. The only way they could have entered her room was about to become the same way they would leave it. That could only mean she was going to be carried down a steep ladder to the ground below, a sheer drop if ever there was one.

  Frightened, her heart leapt to her throat. The pulsing fear paralyzed any thoughts of escape. She was glad her kidnapper had blindfolded her, for she then wouldn’t witness the frightening feat. Her balcony was a good two stories above ground level. It hugged a steep cliff that dropped to the terraced lawn below.

  She felt the shaking of the ladder. The late evening wind blew up her long night chemise, and above the sound of the creaking trees, she heard the grunts of her captor as he carried her slowly down.

  Jangling step-by-step, he carried her. She remained perfectly still, not wishing to cause them to fall. She clutched his clothes with a fierce grip.

  Upon reaching the ground, the man deposited her on her feet. He tightly bound her hands and pushed her forward. She heard the sounds of horses pawing the gravel impatiently, the jostling of leather, and the squeak of a carriage door as it opened.

  Her captor help
ed her up the conveyance’s steps and then thrust her none too gently onto the leather squabs. She bruised her right shoulder as she accidentally hit the side of the carriage door, letting forth a muffled squeal of protest.

  She listened to the man yell, “Give way, Jack, we’ve got her!” Then she heard the horse’s quick clip-clops as the vehicle picked up speed, rocking her to and fro along the bumpy road.

  The crack of the ouster’s whip sang overhead as he urged the horses onward. She must have fallen asleep, for suddenly, she found herself in the motionless carriage.

  A familiar male voice spoke, giving commands. It sent warning tingles up and down her arms. This was a man she knew! A villain who’d dared to do this evil deed.

  “Pull the hood off, Snipes. I wish my intended to behold her bridegroom,” she heard the self-satisfied aristocrat say.

  The blind removed, she watched as the carriage door opened and he stepped into the light of an upheld lantern. She gasped aloud at the loathsome sight of his face.

  “Why it’s you! Viscount Linley, a cad of the lowest order, if I ever met one,” she said, her voice trembling with all the contempt she could muster.

  “How dare you let these cutthroats touch me?”

  “No, m’dear, you’re sadly mistaken, ’tis really none of my doing,” he said, as if the entire plot had been of no consequence to him. “You know perfectly well you brought this sorry state of affairs upon your own pretty head, my dear. Aye, if only you had listened and obeyed me, none of this sorry business would have come to pass.” His yellow teeth glistening in the lamplight, he smiled with complete delight.

  “Upon my word, look at you, Lady Beatrice. Quite a bedraggled mess, aren’t you? But I forgive you this unseemly attire,” he said, sighing over her state of disarray. “I hear ’tis normal for one of such a shrewish temper as yourself to go gallivanting about the countryside in the most peculiar attires.”

  “It’s almost shameful when I consider how different this meeting might have been, if you had only greeted me more warmly the last time we met to discuss our impending nuptials,” he said, whipping out a lace handkerchief and a box of snuff. “We wouldn’t have had to go through this added expense of forcing you to marry me. Quite tiresome, really, hiring mercenaries.”