by Candice Hern
"The truth about why Emily felt the need to run away in the first place. You know something happened, but I do not think you know the whole story."
"I don't know any story at all," Charlotte said in a peevish tone. "Nobody tells me anything."
"Well, I am going to tell you everything," Beatrice said. "It is a very grown-up story, though, and you may not understand it all, but I want you to hear it. Do you remember when Emily and I made a visit to Doncaster House to visit the duchess? And how we also met Lord Thayne that day for the first time?"
And she went on to tell them a slightly edited version of all that had happened since that day at Doncaster House. She did not tell them about the masquerade ball, or details of when and where she and Gabriel had met. But she told them enough for them to understand that she had been involved in a very adult and very improper relationship with Lord Thayne, and how it had ultimately led to scandal.
"Are you in love with Lord Thayne, Mama?" Charlotte asked.
Beatrice took a deep breath and let the words come out into the open. "Yes, I am. I love him."
"Then why did you refuse to marry him?" She told them all the things she had told Gabriel at the time, about being wrong for him, too old for him, how he would need an heir to ensure the succession.
"I already have you girls," she said. "And I love you both very much." There. She had said it. Now they would always know. "I cannot imagine having more children at my age."
"I always wished we had a brother," Charlotte said wistfully.
"Oh, me, too!" Georgie exclaimed. "I used to wish and wish that you would marry again, Mama, so we could have a brother."
Beatrice gazed at her daughters in shock. "I never knew that. You never mentioned it before."
"It was just dreaming," Georgie said with a shrug. Beatrice shook her head at all the new revelations in her life. "I am too old to have more children, I fear."
"But what about Lady Hengston?" Emily said. "She is over forty and is still having children." Too many children, in Beatrice's opinion. Twelve, at last count.
"And Lady Oscott, too," Emily continued. "She has a very young son, a toddler, and she is over forty. You are not yet forty, Aunt Beatrice. You could have children. If you wanted. If you were married.”
"Oh. having babies in the house would be such fun!” Charlotte said. "Brothers. At least one must be a brother.”
"A little girl would be fun, too," Georgie said. "We could dress her up and teach her things."
"Excuse me, girls, but you may stop spinning those fantasies right now, if you please. There will be no babies. I am not getting married."
Just like all the other objections to marrying Gabriel, the inability, or unwillingness, to give him an heir suddenly seemed as insubstantial an excuse as all the rest. It did not matter, of course. She had lost him.
"But wouldn't you like to have a child with the man you love?" Emily asked. "I do. I can't wait. A child is the truest symbol of love, is it not?
And just like that, an image sprang into her mind of holding Gabriel's child in her arms. A dark-haired little boy with a tiny cleft in his chin. And Gabriel looking down upon them with love and pride as she took their son to her breast. The truest symbol of love.
"Yes, Emily, it certainly is. But we shall have to look forward to your babies instead."
Chapter 18
"Must you always smoke that ghastly thing?" Thayne looked up to see his mother stride into his sitting room, her nose wrinkled at the smell of tobacco. She rarely visited his apartments, so he knew she must have something serious to discuss. And he could guess what it was.
He put down the mouthpiece, wrapped the tube around the neck, and moved the pipe away to burn self out. "Not always, Mother, but it calms my nerves."
She sat down in the chair opposite and regarded him thoughtfully. "Well, then, it is no wonder you smoke so much. I imagine your nerves are often on edge of late, considering all that has happened."
"Indeed."
She sat in silence for a moment and then said, "Not put too fine a point on it, Gabriel, but the duke and I were still hoping for an announcement at the masquerade ball next week."
"Fine. Tell me who it should be and I shall pay my addresses to her."
"You do not really want me to choose your bride for you. You have said any number of times that you would do your own choosing."
"I did choose. She rejected me."
"Choose again."
"No. You do it. I have no interest in it whatsoever. I am sure whoever you pick will be fine. You know better than anyone what is required."
Her shoulders sagged and her brow puckered into a frown. "You are breaking my heart, Gabriel. I hate to see you so unhappy. Why do you not make one more effort with Lady Somerfield? Perhaps you have given up too easily. Perhaps a bit more persuasion—"
"No. No more." He rose from his chair and went to stand by the window. He did not want to have this conversation with his mother. He'd been having it with himself for several days and was tired of it.
She was silent for long minutes and he could feel her gaze boring into his back. He really did wish she would just name some girl and be done with it. Thayne would be more than pleased to court her, whoever she was. It was more or less what he'd expected anyway. Yes, he had preached and harangued about making his own choice, but it was always meant to be from among those girls the duchess brought to his attention. He was now prepared for her to narrow that field to one. Making his own choice had not mattered to him for quite some time now. Ever since he'd become obsessed with Beatrice.
He watched a flock of birds swoop together in one direction, then the other, drunkenly weaving their way as one across the park. Which one was their leader? Who decided when to swing left, when to swing right, when to go back the way they'd come? For once in his life, Thayne was willing to be one of the follower birds, to allow someone else to send him in a specific direction. He just wished his mother or the duke would make the damned decision for him so he could finally know where he was going. He'd been chasing his own tail for too long, getting nowhere.
"If you are concerned," the duchess said at last, about how your father and I would feel about an older woman, a widow with children, you need not worry on that score. She is not what we had expected from you, to be sure, but she is a fine woman and you obviously love her."
"I have been wondering why. She thinks I keep slaves. That I brought back slaves with me from India to do my bidding."
"What? Where did she hear such a nonsensical thing?"
"I did not ask," he said, and wondered why he hadn't. Not that it mattered. "The point is that she believed it, wherever she heard it."
"How could she believe such a hateful, wrong-headed thing about you? You would never keep slaves, for heaven's sake. You're an Englishman."
"She asked if I ever sold slaves, and I told her I had not. But when she asked if I had ever bought slaves . .. "
She gave a low groan. "And you did not tell her the truth?"
"Lady Somerfield already had her opinion of me. I had neither the desire nor the inclination to defend myself. The fact that she believed it was all that mattered."
He heard the duchess heave an exasperated sigh. He did not need to turn around to clearly picture the look of irritation on her face. "Has it not occurred to you," she said, "that she was hoping you would explain? To prove wrong whatever ugly gossip she nave heard?"
"No, it has not. Because there was more, Mother. She had somehow heard about Chitra. She knew her name."
"Little Chitra? What about her?"
"She believes her to be my sex slave or my concubine or some such nonsense. She seems to think I even have a harem."
"But that is ridiculous, Gabriel." Her voice rose in outrage. "Where could she possibly have heard such stories? You might want to make it your business to find out, you know. Lady Somerfield may not be the only one who has heard them and believes them."
He turned to face her. "I have thought
of that. But I prefer, I think, to allow my actions to speak for me. I have nothing to hide. Nothing of which I am ashamed. I certainly have no slaves."
"Of course not. Well, you must do as you please, my boy. But I do wish you could settle things with Lady Somerfield. If she is the one you want, then you must fight for her."
Restless, he walked back to where he'd been smoking and plopped down in the chair again. "I used to think I could have everything I wanted, Mother, and it was true. Nothing was ever denied me, and I have grown accustomed to getting my way in all things. But I am finally learning that I can't have everything, after all. I cannot have Beatrice. She does not want me. And at the moment, I am not sure I want her anymore."
"Then for God's sake, find someone else! Soon." She rose and walked to the door. "I want that announcement at the ball, Gabriel."
"Then name the girl!" he said to her back as she left.
An instant later, she had returned to stand in the doorway. "If I do in fact name the girl, you will accept my choice?"
"Have I not said as much? Yes, Mother, I will accept your choice."
"I have your word on it?"
"You have my word."
"All right, then. Consider it done." She turned on her heel and left.
As soon as she was gone, Ramesh stepped into the sitting room from the adjacent dressing room. He bowed and said, "Forgive me, my lord Thayne. I did not mean to listen, but I could not help hearing. You are not a trader in slaves. You must not allow anyone to believe that you are. It is wrong."
"It doesn't matter," Thayne said, with a dismissive wave. "Have my horse brought round, Ramesh. I am going for a long ride." He needed to get away. The walls seemed to be closing in on him. Fresh air.
Space. He needed room to breathe.
* * *
"Rochdale knows about the Merry Widows. He knows about our pact. Everything."
Her friends stared at Beatrice in astonishment. They were gathered in her otherwise empty drawing room on Brook Street. Once again, no other guests arrived. Beatrice was still something of a social parriah. Thank heaven the Merry Widows still came around; else she would turn into a recluse. Grace was the only one missing today.
How do you know that?" Penelope asked. "Did he say something to you?"
"No, but he apparently said quite a lot to Thayne. He knew about the pact, about our candid discussions, all of it. He was furious with me—said I'd used him, played with him like some kind of . . . sex toy. And he did not appreciate knowing that I might have shared with all of you the intimate details of our sexual encounters. I could hardly deny it, could I?"
"I don't see what is so unusual about friends sharing intimate secrets," Penelope said. "I am sure men do it all the time, telling each other about the particular abilities of this highflier or that opera dancer."
"It is threatening to them," Wilhelmina said. "They don't like to think that women may talk behind their backs about size and performance and stamina and such. What if they were to . . . come up short, so to speak? Or were unable to perform? Men are much more vain about such things than women. Only imagine their anxiety if, after a less-than-satisfactory performance, their failure was reported to other women? It is that fear, Beatrice, that made Thayne so angry. A typical male response."
"But how did Rochdale know?" Beatrice asked. "I am sure none of us has told anyone. Have we?" She looked around at each woman. Wilhelmina shook her head; Penelope did the same.
"Oh, dear." Marianne's face was pinched with concern. "I think Adam may have told him."
"You told Adam about our pact?" Penelope asked.
"No! I never told him. Not even since we married. We promised to keep it secret and I have honored that promise. But I have often wondered how much he actually overheard that morning at Ossing Park. He might have been on that staircase longer than we know."
"If that is true," Wilhelmina said, "then, as I recall, he would have heard nothing but praise for his lovemaking."
"But I think we may have mentioned our pact," Marianne said. "Or perhaps he only heard enough to figure it out for himself. And then, while I was still punishing him by pretending I believed someone else had been my lover that night, he spent a great deal of time with Rochdale. He may very well have had too much to drink one night and admitted to Rochdale what he knew. Or thought he knew. That is the only explanation I can think of."
"You may be right," Beatrice said. "Unless Grace confessed to someone, and I sincerely doubt that."
Penelope grinned. "She can hardly bear listening to us talk about our lovers. I cannot imagine she would dream of telling anyone else about it. No, I think Marianne has hit upon the answer. Rochdale learned it from Adam. Well, let us hope he is not telling tales of us all over London."
"I doubt that," Wilhelmina said. "I have some . . .experience with Rochdale. He has his faults, but he is not entirely dishonorable. Consider his restraint with young Emily. He might have ruined her, but did not. I suspect he must have deliberately teased Lord Thayne with what he knew because of that unfortunate public airing of your affair, Beatrice."
"You're probably right," Beatrice said. "It hardly matters. Thayne and I have ended things between us. We parted with considerable bitterness, with hateful words spoken by both of us. And I have never been more miserable." She felt the sting of tears build up behind her eyes and made an effort to hold them m check.
"Endings are never easy," Wilhelmina said in a gentle voice.
"Especially this one," Beatrice said. "I fear I have made the biggest mistake of my life. He loves me. Or did. And I love him. I ought never to have refused him."
"You believe you should have married him?" Penelope stared at her incredulously. "Is this the same Beatrice who encouraged us all to forsake marriage and relish our independence?"
"I was wrong. Love changes everything."
"It certainly does," Marianne agreed. "I never thought I wanted to marry again, but I have never been happier. It is sometimes wrong, I think, to stay so fixed on an idea, to be so inflexible in one's thinking. Things change. People change. Love comes into our lives and turns everything topsy-turvy. We cannot assume that the things we want today will make sense for us tomorrow. The freedom we have all talked about and relished so much as widows, the freedom to live our lives as we please, also means freedom to change."
"Beautifully stated, my dear," Wilhelmina said. She sat next to Marianne on the sofa, and patted her gently on the arm. "I have always lived my life in the moment. I have never presumed to know what tomorrow may bring. Or whom."
"I wish I had moderated my own philosophy a bit earlier," Beatrice said. "Because I was inflexible, as Marianne said, I have lost what I now realize I most wanted. Love."
"But you must have known Thayne loved you," Wilhelmina said. "He would not have asked you to marry him otherwise. Now, if he had betrothed himself to some young girl in her first Season, we would know it was a match based on fortune or rank or dynastic alignment. The usual reasons. But to marry a widow with children, an older woman . . . such an unexpected decision has to be based on love."
"I suspected," Beatrice said. "But I did not know. Until he said the words. That changed everything for me."
"It always does," Wilhelmina said.
"And so now I realize what a fool I've been," Beatrice said, "and there's not a damned thing I can do about it. The final Widows Fund ball is approaching. The masquerade at Doncaster House. He is to announce his betrothal at the ball."
"Is he?" Wilhelmina said. "Are you certain?"
"The duke and duchess are determined on it, he told me. Knowing Her Grace, I have little doubt she will insist upon it."
"But who—"
They were interrupted by Cheevers, Beatrice's butler, who had entered the room quietly and now bent close to her ear.
"There are two persons downstairs, my lady, who insist upon speaking to you."
"What sort of persons?"
"I am not certain, but they are foreign, to be sure The
man is wearing an orange turban. He is most adamant that you see him. I fear, my lady, that they will not leave until they have spoken with you."
"Do vou have any idea what they wish to speak to me about?"
"No, my lady. The man will not say."
"I suppose I had better go and see what he wants."
She turned to her friends. "I fear I am needed downstairs. You will please forgive me for calling short our visit. Thank you so much for coming. Truly. You are very dear to me."
The Merry Widows rose, collected their things, and made their farewells. Marianne had almost blurted out that she loved them, but recollected that Cheevers stood behind her, and thought better of it.