Silver-Tongued Temptress

by Sara Ackerman

  Chapter 33

  York, England, March 1811

  The month following her reunion with Gabriel was the best and the most terrifying time of her life. Once the initial excitement of being reunited had faded, Bea set about being a mother, finding it more difficult than any task she’d set out to do. Her initial impulse was to spend as much time with her son as possible; she’d missed out on too many years to waste time away from him. After a week of walking him to and from the parish for his lessons, joining him in the stables after lunch, and telling him stories at night, he asked her to leave him alone before stomping out of the house.

  “You’re smothering the boy,” Agatha said when Bea wandered into the kitchen to seek advice. “He’s his own person and has lived ten years without you. The lad finds comfort in his routines, but your arrival has disrupted his safe, cozy world. Like you, he’s trying his best to adapt.”

  “Why is it wrong to want to be with him or take an interest in what he does?”

  “There’s taking an interest and there’s stifling him. It’s been a week and you’ve not let the boy out of your sight. Give him some space to adjust to your presence in his life. Pushing him like this will serve to drive a wedge between you two.”

  “I missed out on so much of his life. I want to learn all I can about him.”

  “It’s been less than two weeks. Slow down and get to know him. Never forget he loves you. Give him some time.”

  He’d been so angry when he stomped out of the house. His little face scrunched to an obstinate frown reminded her so much of Luka she ached. Before she’d had the chance to fix what was wrong, he’d thrown on his jacket and run from her. Worry, unlike anything she’d ever experienced, thrummed through her, and she walked the short distance to the kitchen door hoping to see his blue coat approaching the house. Snowy fields and waning afternoon sunlight greeted her concerned gaze.

  “He’ll be all right?” she asked, pressing her nose to the cool window on the exterior kitchen door.

  “When he’s hungry he’ll find his way home. Don’t you worry any. I’ll send him to you when he comes back. He’ll have to apologize to you for yelling. We don’t tolerate disrespect in this house.”

  Bea took one last look out the door leading to the kitchen gardens, snatched some gingerbread, and wandered to the stairs.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Maybe I’ll read a book,” she said, though the idea held no appeal.

  “What you should do is write your sisters.” Agatha waved a wooden spoon at her. Since arriving home, Agatha, Grant, and Mr. Jackson had been subtly, and in some cases not so subtly, urging her to write her sisters. She’d yet to be persuaded.

  “I’ve taken your advice under consideration,” she said. “But I shall visit the attics today.”

  Grasping the railing, Bea turned and walked up the stairs, Agatha’s voice a harsh slap at her back. “You can’t avoid them forever!”

  No, she couldn’t avoid writing her sisters forever, but one more afternoon wouldn’t hurt. Besides, the attic held much more possibility for enjoyment. Once above stairs, she fetched a lantern and her shawl, certain the unused space would be cold and dank. The old door creaked on its hinges as she shoved it open. No one had used it in years, yet the stairs were free of dust, and the actual attic itself was in relative repair. Someone had cleaned the floor and taken the time to wash the small window.

  Setting her lantern on an old table near the window, she scanned the cluttered attic. Sheets covered most of the old furniture, bulky trunks and discarded memorabilia, but one trunk stood uncovered. It was her chest. She’d left it behind when she married, for it held old mementos and broken toys, tattered remnants of a child’s former treasures. If her memory served her, though, a veritable army of lead soldiers lay nestled somewhere within the trunk’s bowels. “If they exist,” she said, opening the curved lid. She hoped so. Gabriel might enjoy playing with them.

  The faint aroma of roses greeted her, and she stared in amazement at the dried flowers sitting on top of her preserved treasures. They had not been there when she’d packed and closed the lid on her childhood before leaving for London and her subsequent debut. Nestled next to the flowers were two unopened pieces of parchment. She did not recognize the red seal, but they were in her trunk and therefore hers to open. The light was dim so far from the lantern, so she took her letters near the window and opened the seal. Minutes later, her trembling knees gave way, and she sank to the floor clutching the letters to her chest.

  Her sisters had written to her one final time. From Grant’s narrative about the events following news of her death, she knew her family had held a funeral for her at Westby Estate. The dried roses had been pulled from her coffin before they buried the empty box in the family’s plot. Each letter was a poignant farewell from her dear sisters.

  Tears of shame burned her eyes, and she was helpless to stop their descent. She’d been a coward, alive and hiding in York while her sisters grieved. Why did she doubt they wouldn’t?

  “Maybe because I was a disinterested sibling for much of their adult lives.” Her distance, she had reasoned, assured their safety, but it had also ensured her sisters remained strangers. Yet she held proof they had not given up on her despite her best efforts to push them away.

  “They loved me.” There was no doubt, for Amelia and Evelyn had each written loving tributes to her memory.

  “Mother? Who are you talking to?”

  She stood and wiped away the tears as Gabriel entered the attic. “To myself, Gabriel. Talking aloud helps me work through my problems.”

  For a little boy who was prone to bouts of extreme energy, he stood almost statue-like in front of her, his sunny face serious. “Were you crying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I make you cry?” he asked, his own voice wobbling.

  For a split second she hesitated to embrace him before she ignored the voice telling her to give him some space and pulled him to her arms. “No, Gabriel. You didn’t make me cry. My sisters did. They wrote some nice things about me.”

  “I said some not nice things about you and made you upset, didn’t I?” His words were muffled against her stomach, so she stooped to hear, kneeling before him. Taking his shoulders in her hands, she said, “I was more worried than anything, but not anymore.”

  Tears shone in his brown eyes, and he sniffed. “I came back because I was hungry, but Grandma Agatha was gone. I looked for you all over the house, and I couldn’t find you. I thought you’d gone away because I yelled at you.”

  “Never! I’m not going anywhere, Gabriel. I’m here to stay.”

  He wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve, and her heart lurched. “Good, because I don’t want you to leave.”

  An idea formed, one she should have acted on months previous. “What if we left together?”

  He wriggled and clapped his hands together. “Are we going on a trip?”

  “A visit to my sisters and their husbands might be a good way to shake these winter doldrums. They live in Scotland. It’s a long journey, and I’ll need an intelligent, brave companion beside me.”

  He puffed out his chest, putting his hands on his hips. “I’m smart and brave!”

  “So you are. It is a long trip, though. We might need something to occupy our time. How about we look in my trunk? There should be a score of soldiers to keep us company. Help me find them?”

  Running to the chest, he rummaged through the trunk, his cry of triumph as he pulled out the first soldier music to her ears. When he’d assembled a regiment’s worth of lead men and gathered them in his hands, he asked, “Play with me, Mother, please?”

  She ruffled his hair, a tentative peace settling about her shoulders. “I’d love to.”

  Chapter 34

  Stanton, March 1811

  Bea and Gabriel arrived mere days after her letters arrived at her sisters’ homes, but a sentry had been posted at the entranceway to Ballywith to await her arrival. Her c
oachman had no sooner arrived at the front door when it flew open and a blur of blue satin and red hair streaked down the stairs, an angry giant behind her yelling to slow down. The carriage door was ripped open, and green eyes scanned the plush interior, stopping when they spied her face.

  Amelia scowled, her chest heaving from her hurried flight, and wagged a finger in her face. “Beatrice Josephine Westby, I swear to God if you die again and don’t tell me you’re alive until months later, I will rip your limbs from your body, throw them in a bonfire, and dance while the flames consume you.” She pushed her fiery curls from her face, and Bea swallowed a sob. “Well? Are you going to sit there while I freeze my arse off in the cold, or are you going to make me yank you from your carriage?”

  Through watery laughter, Bea jumped from the carriage and was enfolded in a fierce embrace. Bea’s own arms crept around her sister’s middle and peace descended. “Don’t you ever do that to me again, Beatrice,” Amelia whispered. “Promise me.”

  “I promise, never again.”

  When Amelia pulled away, her fierce expression and watery eyes transformed to open curiosity as she stared behind her shoulder. “Who do we have here?” She gestured to Gabriel. “He looks familiar.”

  Wrapping an arm around her son’s shoulders, she ushered him to her sister. “This is my son, Gabriel. Gabriel, meet one of your aunts, my sister Amelia.”

  By this time, Amelia’s husband, Tavis, had joined her side, and she clutched at his arm. “Your son? How old is he?”

  “I turned ten in January,” he said. “You have pretty hair.”

  “Thank you, Gabriel.” Though still a trifle pale, she extended her hand. “Beatrice, it seems we have much to talk about, but right now I’m a little overwhelmed, and perhaps in need of some biscuits. Would you care to join me, Gabriel? A long journey makes me hungry.”

  “Me too! Did you know you said a bad word to my mother?” Bea stifled her choked laughter as Amelia gifted her with a withering look.

  She and Gabriel walked up the stairs to the house. “I suppose I did, though sometimes it is well-deserved, nephew. Your mother knows why.”

  His happy chatter faded away as they entered the house, the door closing behind them.

  “It seems there is more to your story than you let on in your letter,” her brother-in-law said.

  “Perhaps. Maybe later, after I’ve seen Evie and settled in, I’ll be ready to tell it. Help me with our baggage?”

  “Leave it on the stairs. Someone will carry it in for you. If you’re not too tired, we have business to discuss.” He offered his arm and escorted her up the front stairs.

  “I can’t imagine what.” She turned and allowed the butler to remove her cloak. Already two footmen had scurried outside and were bringing her luggage indoors.

  Tavis motioned for her to follow him. “A letter arrived last week addressed to you. Amelia and I have been more than a little curious.” He ushered her to a cozy wood-paneled study, and offered her a seat in an oversized chair near the fire. She warmed her hands and feet, a happy sigh escaping as tingling sensation returned to both sets of extremities. Tavis, who had gone to his desk to fetch the letter, returned and sat beside her. “Amelia was of a mind to open and read it to decide if there was sensitive news you might need to know upon your arrival.”

  “She comes by her nosiness honestly. I’d have tried the same,” she said, taking the letter in hand. The wax seal was unrecognizable. “One person knows to send me a letter here, and we did not leave on good terms.”

  “Would you like me to read it for you?”

  “Please. I don’t have the strength to do it myself.” She passed back the letter, which he opened and read aloud.

  “ ‘Dear Beatrice, My father was hung a week ago. There was a sizable bounty on his head and a generous land grant for the one to bring him to justice. I declined and suggested the Prince Regent gift it to you. After all, your compassion is what stopped you from ending his life. I’ve enclosed the deed to the land grant, as well as a bank draft. Both should provide for you and your child for years to come. Yours Sincerely, Thomas Wickes.’ Are you well? You’ve gone pale.”

  “I’m a wealthy woman, Tavis, honored by the Prince himself, yet I’d like nothing more than to toss the money back in Thomas Wickes’s face.”

  “An unwise decision, given you’d be insulting our sovereign and throwing away a sizable gift.”

  “What do you suggest I do, if not return the funds to Mr. Wickes?”

  “While you were away, circumstances surrounding your father’s title and line of succession have been stalled in probate. Within the last several weeks, the muddle surrounding who inherits has cleared, and your father’s heir arrives in six months to assume control of the estate. After discovering you were alive, I sent some inquiries regarding your share of your husband’s estate, but because you were declared dead, the annual portion you received has been terminated. This money and land deed have arrived at the perfect time, for without them you would have no home and no money to provide for your child. My business is new, and while you can live here, right now there is little money to send your son to school. It’s not impossible, but it will prove to be difficult.”

  “Which is why you’re suggesting I keep the money.”

  “Establish yourself in any style you please and live a happy life.”

  He spoke sense, and though the money added to the debt she owed Thomas Wickes, she set it aside and considered the money as payment for the years she had served the man. “Pour me a glass of whisky, Tavis. I’m a wealthy woman. It’s time to celebrate.”

  Tavis poured her a generous tumbler filled with the amber liquid. “What should we toast?”

  “The future.”

  ****

  “Your son is delightful,” Amelia said. Bea smiled and burrowed further into her cloak. After luncheon, word had arrived from the dower house, where Alfred and Evie lived. Evie was awake and able to receive visitors, Amelia explained, the recent toll of childbirth having left their younger sister weak and in need of constant care, so Bea, Gabriel, Amelia, and Tavis bundled in their outerwear to walk the mile to Evie’s house. Tavis and Gabriel lagged behind, his uncle having decided to educate the lad on the proper way to form a snowball.

  “He’s wonderful,” she agreed.

  “Why didn’t you say you had a son? We wouldn’t have judged you. Even though we were younger, Evie and I would have found a way to support you. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “My life since leaving home has not been easy, and I’ve made the best choices given the circumstances.”

  Her green eyes flared. “What a pretty evasion, but nowhere near an answer, Beatrice.”

  She sighed. “It’s all I can give you now. I promise, before we leave, I’ll tell you everything.”

  “You’d better, because after the anguish you’ve put us through this last year, my patience for subterfuge and dishonesty has waned.”

  “Me too, Amelia. Me too.” They rounded a corner, and the dower house loomed on the horizon. A modest two-story home, it boasted a wide front door, large windows, and a pleasant-looking wooded area behind the home. They were halfway up the walk when the door flew open, much as it had done at Amelia’s, and Alfred rushed to meet them. Enfolding her in his arms, he said, “I knew you were too stubborn to die, Beatrice. Thank God, you’re here.”

  “Alfred! Bring her in,” her younger sister yelled from inside.

  “Motherhood has not dampened Evie’s commanding charm, I see. Shouldn’t she be above stairs in bed?”

  He released her and smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Your letter took us all by surprise. She was already weak from childbirth, but the shock you weren’t dead sent her into a relapse of sorts. I carried her to the front sitting room after her nap. She’s tucked on the settee, waiting for you.”

  “At her insistence.”

  “Of course. Come, she will want to see you before growing too weary.”

 
Bea followed Alfred and entered the cozy home and removed her cloak. After giving him stern orders to behave, she left Gabriel with his uncles and entered the sitting room, Amelia close behind.

  Evie was surrounded by blankets, her already delicate features made even more so by her recent illness and the strain of childbirth. Dark shadows circled her eyes, and anxious expectance wreathed her mouth in small lines. Bea could see her little sister had suffered, and she had prolonged her agony by refusing to come home.

  Rushing to her side, she knelt at the settee and cupped her sister’s hands in her own. “Evie, I’m so sorry.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “For causing you and Amelia to suffer.”

  Evie framed her face with her small hands and smiled. “Your journey must have been difficult, for your grief, even after all these months, is so strong.” She studied her, much as Master Jones had done the night they had parted. “But you are stronger now, my dear. I see a lightness in your soul which was absent when last we met.”

  “I was lost for a long time.”

  Evie’s hands dropped to the blankets, and she sighed, resting her head against the pillows. “And now? Have you come home to us?”

  She took her sister’s hand and reached behind her for Amelia, who sat in a chair near the settee. “I need to tell you what happened, but it’s a long, unpleasant story.”

  “Even now you hesitate, despite our reassurance and love. What is your fear, Beatrice? What can be worse than the isolation and separation you’ve inflicted upon yourself?” Amelia asked.

  Her sister was right. Fear, her constant companion, was whispering its ugly lies, convincing her to remain quiet and avoid further heartache. Already, the urge to distance herself demanded action, and she experienced an intense sorrow as she imagined her sisters’ loathing when they discovered what she’d done to survive. “I would not have you turn from me in disgust.”

  “Instead you condemn us for an act we’ve yet to commit,” Evie said.

  Amelia squeezed her hand. “Credit us with enough sense to know our own minds. We want to be a part of your life, which includes the good and the bad parts. You don’t have to be alone anymore.”