by Regina Darcy
Percival set down his tumbler, added another shot and held his glass up. “Yes, quite. However, I am uncertain of how to proceed.”
“I am certain if anyone can figure this out, it is you,” Lord Lockley informed him, bright optimism colouring his tone. “After all, you won her over once, so there is no reason to believe you cannot do so once more.”
Percival walked to the settee, sank back against its pillows and cradled his drink in his hand. “I hope your faith in my prowess is warranted.”
Lord Lockley nodded. “Absolutely, and you already have my blessing to court my daughter.”
Percival smiled as he took another sip of his drink. Truly, he couldn’t have chosen a better family to align himself with. Kindness and modesty was a Winters staple. Most importantly, they loved and respected each other in equal measure, heedless of any kind of shortcomings.
Percival offered Lord Lockley a small smile then turned his attention back to his drink.
“Perhaps you can join us for dinner, if you have no other plans,” Lord Lockley suggested, eyes brightening at the idea. “In the meantime, you and Beatrice can talk in the drawing room. Perhaps if she sees you, she will remember.”
“I hope so,” Percival murmured, pushing away all thoughts of losing his betrothed.
Without no further ado he walked out of the study and strode to the day room where the woman who held his heart waited for him.
When he walked through the door two sets of eyes looked back at him.
As his gaze locked with Beatrice Winters, he was reminded in an instant of his affection for her.
It was an emotion worth fighting for.
“Papa and Caroline both tell me that ours is a love match,” Miss Beatrice commented, pausing to adjust her hair before she looked up at him. Percival was seated in a chair across from her, her sister Miss Caroline had tucked herself away in a corner to give them privacy.
“It is,” Percival confirmed.
Miss Beatrice shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“Have you any evidence of this?”
“Evidence?” Percival repeated, sitting up straighter. He cast a look over at Miss Caroline who was in the midst of her embroidery. She had a pillow in her hand, and was moving her hands furiously, in and out. As if she sensed his dismay, she looked up at him and shrugged, her bright intelligent eyes full of pity.
Clearly, Miss Caroline was just as much at a loss as he was and unable to help him with his predicament. Why, he would be offended if his betrothed had not asked the question with so much sincerity and curiosity.
Indeed, she seemed to genuinely believe she needed proof of their affection for each other, as if somehow that would make her remember him immediately. He wished he could oblige her, but he had nothing to offer.
He longed to take her in his arms, to bury his hands in her glorious mane and show her the fire that burned inside him. But instead, he just smiled coolly.
Their relationship had never crossed the threshold of propriety and clearly that was not about to start now.
“Yes, evidence,” Miss Beatrice insisted, straightening her back. Firelight cackled in the corner chimney, bright orange flames dancing across the side of her face and highlighting the colour of her dress and her glistening ebony locks. “Surely, you have some kind of token as evidence of our love.”
“Er.” Percival paused, cleared his throat and glanced around the room. His gaze lingered on the portraits lined up on the wall, one, in particular, of an older woman with hair the same colour as Beatrice’s, and the same tilt of her eyes.
The late Lady Lockley.
“Well?” Miss Beatrice prompted, eager but not unkindly. “I wish to see them.”
Percival cleared his throat and turned his attention back to his betrothed, his oak-wood eyes regarding her intently. “I’m afraid I cannot oblige you, Miss Beatrice. Believe me, I wish I could.”
Fool.
Obviously, he should’ve thought to bring something with him, a token of his affection, but he had nothing to offer her.
This was no way to start a courtship.
“Why not?” Miss Beatrice asked, tilting her head to the side and studying him openly. Her eyes swept over his chestnut locks and down his face before she settled on his eyes, a flicker of mistrust moving across her features before she stamped it out.
“Because I have nothing to prove it,” Percival replied, calmly. Courting had not been nearly this hard, nor this uncomfortable, the first time around, and he had to wonder why Miss Beatrice wanted the evidence to begin with.
“I trust your feelings will guide you on this matter.”
“Feelings?” Beatrice repeated, her eyebrows knitted together. “What feelings, Mr Percival? We are hardly acquainted. In fact, with my memory loss, I do not know you at all, so I pray you will forgive my questions.”
“Beatrice,” Miss Caroline warned from her corner in the room, her tone clipped. “You must not be so harsh and impatient with Mr Percival. He is doing the best he can.”
Miss Beatrice sighed. “I am well aware of that, Caroline, but if I am to marry this gentleman then I must know his character. I cannot enter into such a union blindly.”
Percival cleared his throat and flicked an imaginary flint off his lapel, hoping to hide the wince that flashed across his features. Oh, he knew she meant no harm, her words simply serving to express her emotions, but it did not mean they were not as sharp as a cut.
“You are right, Miss Beatrice,” he acknowledged, his tone calm and measured, betraying nothing of the anguish that lurked within. “I hope I am able to assist you in this matter. You are free to ask of me what you wish, and I shall endeavour to be as helpful as I can.”
Miss Beatrice stared. “How kind of you, Mr Percival. Thank you.”
Surely, his word was enough, but not to her. She seemed to mistrust his assertions altogether. Although it left a dull ache in its wake and made bile rise in the back of his throat, he also understood why.
Having lost her memories of the past year, Miss Beatrice needed to be sure of her affection for him, and he for her, before she threw herself into a marriage she did not recall agreeing to. He could not hold this against her, and in the end, patience was key. After all, this was the woman he loved. He would do anything to have her back.
He understood her mistrust and suspicion. In fact, it was her very mind that Percival adored, her sharp intellect, and her ability to speak from the heart. As far as she was concerned, her behaviour, while leaving a little to be desired, was necessary to secure her future, and he accepted that.
Without warning, Percival jumped to his feet, placed his hand on his chest, and offered both sisters a deep bow.
“Thank you for the pleasure of your company,” he spoke slowly. “I am sorry I could not assist you further in your quest, my lady. Hopefully it will all become clearer in the coming weeks. I feel certain you shall find your answers.”
He straightened his back, offered Miss Caroline a small smile, then turned on his heels and left. Shaking on the inside, he took his coat and cane on his way out, each step taking him further away from the future he had thought was assured. As soon as he was outside, he took a deep breath, adjusted his coat, then breathed in the night air. The smell of wildflowers and trees hung in the air, filling him with an unusual sense of unease. All too soon, the carriage door opened, and Percival peered inside. Finally, he coughed, straightened his back and stepped inside, quickly adjusting to the dark. Once settled, he tapped his cane against the roof and leaned back.
You are the bedrock upon which my heirs were to be born and the companion whom my heart has chosen. I cannot, will not lose you.
Please remember me, Beatrice.
THREE
A Week Later
MISS CAROLINE WINTERS TO MISS ANN WINTERS
SOMERSET.
Dear Ann,
What a delight it was to get your message. You cannot imagine how trying it has been to help Beatric
e recover. Papa is of little use. He is just so grateful that she has her memory back that he does not either wonder or worry that she does not remember her betrothed. Any diversion is welcome.
It breaks my heart to see how Mr Percival aches for her. I only hope they find a way back to each other, or this year only one of the Winters sisters will be wed.
But whatever is this nonsense about the Marquess of Penderstone? He is known even to my dear Stanway, who declares him to be the worst of rogues. Apparently Casanova is nothing compared to him. Men hide their wives and daughters when he is in the vicinity.
However, Stanway has stated that he is not known for deflowering innocent maidens, so I am reassured that although you foolishly are trying to capture his attention, he is unlikely to compromise your virtue.
But please do regain your senses, Ann. One cannot love someone one does not know – it goes against any logic. Besides, if you have not caught his eye at the first encounter, what makes you think a second or third will make a difference?
I know you are of the belief that there is a connection between the two of you, but I fear for you, sister mine. I fear the connection only lives within your heart and that when you will finally realise the truth of it, the blow will be more crushing than you can imagine.
Know that I take no pleasure in writing these words. I wish for you to find the kind of love I share with the Earl and Theodora with the Duke. Anything else is but a mirage of affections.
Should all matters not present themselves in the manner you had hoped for, do not hesitate to send me a missive. I shall come to you in all haste, with Beatrice in tow!
Your beloved sister,
C. Winters
Beatrice set her sister’s letter down and sighed.
She moved closer to the window of the parlour room and pressed her face to the glass, her eyes fixed on the greenery below. A soft chirping noise reached her ears, and her lips curved into a half smile, imagining a tiny winged creature taking flight and soaring through the very clouds, straight into the heavens.
Behind her, she heard the door creak open, the light footsteps of Caroline, and a heavy sigh.
“Have you been reading my correspondence again?”
“I thought to check on Theodora and Ann,” Beatrice replied. “I am sorry you find me so be trying, dear sister. I do not mean to be difficult.”
“Oh, Bea,” Caroline exclaimed, rushing over to her and taking her sister’s hand in hers. “I do not mean to speak ill of you, but I cannot deny that it has been difficult watching you struggle.”
“You pity Mr Percival,” Beatrice reminded her. She turned her attention away from the window and faced Caroline in her bright coloured dress and elegant up-do. “I sense that you admire him.”
“I confess I did not understand your attachment in the beginning,” Caroline admitted, leading her towards the couch. “But I have come to understand it over time, and I do have the utmost respect and admiration for Mr Percival. As do—did you. You have treated him most poorly, Beatrice.”
“I have not,” Beatrice insisted, taking her hand away and dropping against the couch. “There was nothing wrong with my request.”
“There most certainly was,” Caroline disagreed, taking the seat opposite her and leaning forward. “You held him in your affections, Beatrice, and he held you in his. We all saw it. I do not know why you mistrust his affections for you.”
Beatrice sighed. “I cannot tell you why, Caroline. I fear you will laugh at me.”
“Laugh at you?” Caroline echoed. “Why ever would I do that? Dear sister, I am certain you must know by now that I cannot mock you in seriousness. It is always in jest.”
Beatrice huffed, reached for her cup of tea and curled her fingers around it, staring at the now cold concoction she held in the palm of her hands. “You love Stanway, yes?”
Caroline blinked. “Of course I do.”
“And you remember how he won your affection?”
Caroline nodded. “Yes. He was always kind to me, even when he did not know it was me who had written the letter that ended up saving his life. And he was always quoting poetry to me, spending long hours by the lake expressing in so many small ways his affection for me. Why, he even tried to sing me a song, though I must confess that his singing is subpar.”
At the memory, Caroline gave a slight shake of her head and giggled.
“My husband is a man of many talents, but singing is not one of them.”
Beatrice’s lips curved into a half smile.
“That sounds awfully romantic, Caro.”
“Yes, you’ve always thought so,” Caroline commented, her expression turning serious once more. “I know you cannot remember, but you were one of the few who encouraged me not to give up, to follow my heart.”
Beatrice turned to stare at the fire, at the flames leaping and crackling. Her heart grew troubled, but she could not understand why. She thought it had to do with Mr Percival, and her mistrust of the tall and quiet man, but he had done nothing wrong.
Nothing but leave her disquiet. The man did not have the imposing presence of other men, but he had something.
Something that had her heart instinctively trying to protect itself.
“Are you worried that your affections for Mr Percival were not genuine?” Caroline asked, gently. She reached forward, took Beatrice’s hand in hers and squeezed. “Is that why you were being so shrewish to him?”
Beatrice turned her attention away from the fire and back to her sister’s open and earnest expression, worry glimmering across her features.
“Yes, but I also fear that his affections for me are not entirely in earnest.”
Caroline’s eyebrows drew together. “But he has proposed. Is that not enough for you?”
Beatrice could not deny the feelings Mr Percival invoked in her, the visceral reaction she had to his presence; her stomach tightening, and her hands sweating. Yet, it did not explain his cold and aloof nature, and it did little to quiet the fear in her heart. The more she thought about it, the more it puzzled her.
“Not if I am supposedly an heiress,” Beatrice pointed out. “The Duke of Sotheby has been most generous. £30,000 is not a dowry to be scoffed at. That said, lavishing us with that much money has made us targets for less honourable men.”
She had been thinking about that particular predicament since she had first learned the truth of her circumstances. While she had initially been elated with the news, knowing that her father could live out the rest of his days in comfort without wanting for anything, now all she felt was dread.
How was she to truly know if Mr Percival’s feelings were genuine or not? Maybe he was after her fortune?
Caroline gripped Beatrice’s hand.
“I do not believe Mr Percival is such a man. He already has a very comfortable sum of his own, Beatrice, and more. I assure you, he does not need money, I have seen his estate. I do not think he wishes to marry you to increase his fortune. Besides, I have seen the two of you together, and you have made a good match.”
“Then why is there no proof of it?” Beatrice demanded. “I have searched through the belongings I have here, and asked Papa to provide me with letters, trinkets, locks of hair, or anything of the sort. But I have been given nothing and found nothing.”
Beatrice bit her lower lip.
She had a lingering desire to understand why there was no outward signs of affection, no token or anything to reassure her.
Caroline grimaced.
“Yes, Mr Percival is not the traditional sort.”
“What do you mean?”
“You did confide in me that you worried he was far too private at times, that he did not express his affections enough. None of us have ever seen proof of it, big or small, save for the way he acts around you.”
“Acts?” Beatrice inquired.
“Yes. Mr Percival is a quiet man, but around you, he seems to light up, like a fire is lit within him. I cannot explain it any better, I am afraid, but ther
e has never been a token of his affection, at least none that you have shared, and we share everything.”
“Then, how am I to know his love is true?” Beatrice asked, her voice growing quiet.
“Because you love him, Beatrice,” Caroline reminded her. “Deep down, you knew he loved you. You have never needed proof of that.”
“How do I know if he indeed loves this new Beatrice? The one who is forever changed because she cannot remembered that shared past? The one who is no longer the same?”
Caroline, looked at her sister, at a loss for words.
Beatrice frowned. “Without my memory to rely on, I am finding this betrothal a trial. I apologise if I have been difficult of late—”
“Oh, hush,” Caroline interrupted. “You have not been difficult. I understand perfectly. Marriage is no trifle matter, dear sister. You cannot be blamed for wanting to be sure. I pray that in time you will find the answers you desperately seek. Mr Percival is a fine man, but no one will prevail upon you to marry him if you do not wish it.”
“I pray you are right, Caro,” Beatrice murmured. “I do not wish to cause any more harm.”
With those parting words she left the dayroom.
Having spent most of the night tossing and turning, Beatrice decided she was in need of a brusque turn around the grounds to invigorate herself. With that in mind, she had enlisted the help of her lady’s maid to done her frock. She soon ventured outside, the cold air did marvels for her troubled mind.
She tilted her head back, allowing the warmth of the sun to dance across her face. The smell of wildflowers and jasmine invaded her nostrils. Taking a deep breath she continued to walk, her mind racing to make sense of everything.
In truth, she had expected her memory to return by now, as did everyone else, but she seemed to be handling the disappointment far better.
Why, she had seen the frustration lurking in her father and Caroline’s eyes, and the set of their lips. Consequently, she had to work to hide her frustration at her inability to remember.