Beauty in Breeches

by Helen Dickson

  ‘I don’t need to be kept an eye on, Julius,’ Beatrice replied, unable to hide her resentment. ‘I am quite capable of looking after myself.’

  He spun round and looked at her. ‘I am sure you are, but Lady Merrick will be company for you in my absence. Were I to send you to Highfield you wouldn’t know anyone. I intend to take you down there on my return. Here you will find plenty to occupy your time. I want you to familiarise yourself with the house and the servants. Hayes, the butler, and Mrs Keeble, the housekeeper, will be on hand to answer your questions. I’d prefer it if you didn’t ride out just yet. None of the horses here are suitable.’

  Beatrice bristled. ‘I’m sure there must be one. Your horse would suit me perfectly. As you know to your cost I am an accomplished horsewoman—and it will need to be exercised in your absence.’

  ‘No, Beatrice. Absolutely not.’ He was adamant. ‘You possess abundant courage, that I know—the kind of courage needed to fearlessly manage high-spirited horses—but apart from the grooms exercising my horse, he remains in the stable. Understand that. Besides, I shudder to think of the form of dress you would choose to wear. You would scandalise society if you rode through Hyde Park as you do in the country, astride in your breeches.’

  ‘It is much more natural and comfortable to ride that way. I see nothing wrong with it,’ she argued.

  ‘You wouldn’t, but ladies don’t ride astride. It isn’t done. Aside from any other consideration, just think of the damage it would do to my reputation if I were to allow my wife to ride in such a manner.’

  ‘I’m fast coming to think,’ Beatrice returned, ‘that this reputation of yours is invented by you as a convenient excuse to prevent me riding out in public.’ That riposte earned her a distinctly steely glare. Before he could think of a comment to go with it, she said, ‘As you know, my own horse is still at Standish House. Could I not arrange for it to be sent here?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said, having seen for himself how devoted she was to that horse of hers. ‘I’ll instruct the head groom to take care of it. Perhaps you should write a brief note to Lady Standish for her to authorise its removal from her stable. If she refuses to comply with your request, I shall take care of it myself on my return.’

  ‘Thank you, Julius. I would appreciate that.’

  ‘As my wife, I have no doubt people will want to make your acquaintance. Constance will be happy to assist you in the making and receiving of calls, and the ordering of more new gowns from your dressmaker will keep you busy.’

  ‘Yes, although I have enough dresses and fripperies to last me a lifetime. I suppose it will be pleasant to have Lady Merrick’s company on occasion—even when you return. Normal married couples cannot exist on a diet of love alone. And that description can hardly apply to us, can it, Julius?’ she remarked, unable to conceal the hurt she still felt when he had left her bed so soon after making love to her.

  Julius looked at her steadily. His face was expressionless, his eyes hard and empty, an emptiness that told Beatrice nothing of what he felt, then he said, ‘It doesn’t become you to be sarcastic, Beatrice. And as far I am concerned, you will hardly find me lacking in husbandly duties—as it will be my pleasure and yours to discover when I return.’

  Duties, Beatrice thought bleakly. Was that really all their marriage meant to him—all the passion, the sensations he awoke in her that made her almost delirious when he made love to her? Despite the distant attitude she had adopted afterwards, which had been a form of self-defence, last night she had become aware that something was happening. Something awe-inspiring and frightening had happened to her in that split second it had taken her heart to acknowledge it. And she could do nothing about it.

  Julius certainly didn’t care for her and she had no intention of making a fool of herself by telling him she was beginning to care for him. He didn’t give a damn and, in truth, she could hardly blame him. He would more than likely find it highly amusing and tell her it was unfortunate for her. So though it cost her every bit of her strength and will-power, and her own bloody-minded pride, she would keep her feelings to herself.

  ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘As soon as the horses have been hitched to the coach.’

  ‘I see.’

  At that moment there was a rap on the door. Julius crossed the room and opened it, speaking quietly to whoever it was before closing it.

  ‘It is ready. I must go.’

  Suddenly Beatrice wanted to cry and she didn’t know why. Was it because she would miss him, would miss their sparring and the time when they would be alone in her room? How she longed for it now. He must never know how she felt. How he would laugh if he knew. She swallowed her tears and rallied.

  ‘Then what can I say other than to wish you a safe journey, Julius.’ Her voice was low, husky with an inner emotion she did her best to keep under control. Looking at him quickly, she caught a puzzling, watchful glint in his eyes—keen, eager, as though he hung on her next words, hoping she would say—what? She didn’t know. ‘I hope things are not as bad as you imagine when you reach Portsmouth.’

  Her husband looked at her. Wearing a new morning dress, a creation of apple-green twill that emphasised her slender shape and set off the copper and gold of her hair, she looked like an alluring, enchanting temptress. He looked into her green eyes and his hands clenched at his sides as he fought the impulse to rebuke her for holding herself from him after their lovemaking, as though she could not bear for him to touch her again. And yet there had been moments in their second union when he had heard her sigh and her lips had been soft and she had returned his kisses, her hands caressing and clinging instead of clawing as though to steady herself as the climax washed over her. At that moment she had been totally his, dazed and submissive, a woman—his wife.

  The urge to go to her, to take her in his arms and wrap her around him like a blanket and lose himself in her, to kiss her and tell her that he needn’t leave her, that all she had to do was tell him she didn’t want him to go, that she wanted him to stay with her, was strong, but, knowing the chances of her doing so was remote, without another word he turned on his heel.

  His composure held tightly about him, raking his fingers through his hair and Beatrice’s heart, he went out.

  Restless in spite of the desultory mood which had gripped her ever since Julius’s departure, over the following days Beatrice wandered about the house. It was the most opulent she had ever seen. Julius had bought it ten years ago with his newly acquired fortune. No expense had been spared. It had been decorated and furnished to his taste with every kind of luxury.

  She did her best to acquaint herself with the servants and to familiarise herself with the running of the house, and the sphinxlike butler and Mrs Keeble were patience personified in telling her all she needed to know. Never having involved herself in domestic matters at Standish House, which she had considered tiresome and of little consequence anyway, and having no idea of what overseeing a large house and servants entailed, Beatrice was quite out of her depth.

  She worked harder than she had ever worked before, but the multitude of responsibilities and tasks that confronted her daily as mistress of the house, rather than wearing her down, left her pleasantly exhausted and satisfied. She could not help, however, thinking of Julius, and missing him, very much aware how much he had got under her skin. Lady Merrick, who called on her most days, assured her that time would soon pass and he would return, but the confidence with which she spoke, while comforting, also left Beatrice more than a little fearful.

  What would happen when he came back? Would the emotional chasm between them become an insurmountable obstacle? Was it possible that they could find a way of living together, or was there nothing there on which to build? There was little time for such thoughts until the day was done. But then, in the solitude of her bed, in the quiet of the night, her thoughts turned on themselves in a confusing mix. At these times she could stand the constriction of her room no longer and wa
lked through the connecting door to pass a lonely vigil lying on his bed, wishing desperately for his return and the touch of his hands.

  When she was not involving herself with household matters, Lady Merrick would whisk her away on excursions to the popular tea gardens of Vauxhall across the river and Pancras Wells. Beatrice went on her first river boat and went to admire the flowers at Kew and visited the museums and art galleries. In the afternoons they sometimes took advantage of the clement weather and drove in Hyde Park in the Merrick barouche to see and to be seen, often descending to join the numerous people fashionably strolling the lawns.

  Shortly before her husband was expected to arrive home, a letter arrived addressed to her. It was from Julius. She stared at the bold handwriting in surprise, wondering what he could have to say to her that was so important he had to write to her. The letter was brief and to the point, its content making her heart plummet. Circumstances had arisen that meant he had to leave for Portugal on a matter of urgent business. He had no idea how long he would be gone—possibly weeks—and she was to remain in London until such time as he returned.

  Beatrice was unprepared for the desolation that overwhelmed her, but she refused to be downhearted. And if Julius thought she was calmly to remain in his house doing whatever wives were supposed to do, then he could think again. Already she was tired of London and longed for the freedoms of the country where she could lose herself in the joy of riding a decent mount—and Larkhill wasn’t all that far away. Suddenly elation swelled inside her and she smiled audaciously as she was presented with a new objective. Half of her was glad Julius wasn’t here so that she could claim back her old home, and that half was starting to enjoy her new status and married life.

  And so, the day after she had received her husband’s letter, with a small contingent of servants and having sent a note to Lady Merrick informing her of what she intended, she left for Larkhill.

  The days Beatrice spent in her old home were like the golden days of her childhood. The main rooms were furnished with pieces Julius had had sent down from London. She was like a child as she wandered from room to room, beset by so many wonderful memories. The house was filled with shadows, all hazy, dreamlike as she moved about. How wonderful it would be, she thought, if she could remain at Larkhill for ever, but realistically she knew this was not possible. When Julius returned he would take her to Highfield, which was to be her home, but as long as she could visit Larkhill she would be content.

  On her third morning while the dew was still on the ground and brilliant rays of early morning sunlight spilled across the lawn, she was pleasantly surprised when George paid her a visit. She met him on the drive, delirious with joy when she saw he had her precious Major in tow. After she had reacquainted herself with her mount, she turned her attention to her handsome cousin.

  ‘Aunt Moira forbade me to have any further contact with either you or Astrid, George. I shudder to think of her displeasure should she discover you have been here.’

  George shrugged, unconcerned. ‘It was most unfair of her to do that. And anyway, I came to see you, not the other way round. We’ve missed you at the house. It isn’t the same without you. You really did put Mama’s nose out of joint when you up and married Chadwick. She accuses you of stealing him away from Astrid.’

  ‘I suppose it must look like that to her, but in reality it wasn’t. The whole Lord Chadwick affair was your mother’s scheme from the start, a brazen bit of matchmaking in her eagerness to secure for Astrid only the best. It was unfortunate for her that Julius never had any intention of offering for Astrid, so I cannot be accused of stealing him away.’

  George frowned, his expression anxious as he studied his cousin’s face. ‘You are happy, aren’t you, Beatrice? You’ve no regrets about what you did?’

  ‘No, none, George, truly. How can I not be happy when I have all this?’ She opened her arms wide to embrace her beloved Larkhill, laughing joyously. ‘I may not live here since Julius’s home is in Kent, but I can still visit.’

  ‘You do look radiant, Beatrice,’ George said on a serious note. ‘Chadwick must be doing something right.’

  She flushed prettily, remembering her wedding night and all that had transpired. She was impatient for Julius to return so they could live like a properly married couple. ‘Julius is a most attentive husband,’ she said softly. ‘He is away just now—searching for one of his ships that disappeared during a storm in the Bay of Biscay, which is the reason why I’m here now. How is Astrid? Well, I hope?’

  ‘You will be surprised to learn that my dear sister is soon to follow you up the aisle.’

  Beatrice stared at him. ‘You mean Aunt Moira is to allow her to marry Henry Talbot after all?’

  George wasn’t smiling anymore. His concern for his sister was plain. ‘Don’t you believe it—no one so lowly. She’s to wed Lord Alden of Alden Hall in Essex—before Christmas, if Mama has anything to do with it. She’s determined not to let him slip through the net. You must have heard of him since he was a friend of Father’s.’

  ‘Lord Alden? But—he’s an old man—an extremely stout, lecherous old man as I recall.’ Beatrice remembered how Lord Alden had a tendency to grope the female servants if they ventured too close. ‘He’s old enough to be Astrid’s father.’

  ‘Exactly. Fifty-five, to be precise—and far too old for Astrid. Naturally she is averse to the marriage and spends most of her time weeping in her room.’

  ‘Poor Astrid. Then she mustn’t marry him. She’s in love with Henry—and he with her. As head of the family, it is within your power to stop her marrying Lord Alden.’

  George shook his head. ‘I’ve tried, but you know Mama. Since you left her temper has become much worse. She will not be crossed or argued with and refuses to listen to reason. She’s determined to do this, Beatrice.’

  ‘But she cannot force Astrid to marry him.’

  ‘You’re wrong there. When Mama has a bee in her bonnet about something, she’s as immovable as the Rock of Gibraltar. She won’t pass up the chance of Astrid being a countess. Losing her game with you has increased her determination.’

  And her spite, Beatrice thought crossly. She sighed deeply and linked her arm through George’s, in perfect, amiable harmony with each other as usual. ‘Yes, I imagine she has. Come inside and have some breakfast with me—bacon and eggs are on the menu, and kippers, too—and if we put our heads together we’ll try to work out what is to be done. Astrid cannot marry that man.’

  Julius looked out of the carriage window, wishing the driver would go faster. He’d left Portsmouth at first light and now the sights and sounds of London were all around him. It had taken him two months to track down his stricken ship, which had managed to limp into a small port in Portugal, and a further two to have the cargo transferred to another vessel and to oversee the repairs before it was deemed seaworthy enough to embark for England.

  Now he was impatient to be home and considered the shock his sudden arrival would cause to Beatrice. Had she changed in his absence? he wondered. Had she been lonely? Had she missed him? More than once it had occurred to him that she might resent having him return, that she might be enjoying the single life to the hilt, but that idea was nearly as repugnant as the idea that she might have found another on whom to bestow her affections.

  What surprised him most was how much he had missed her. In his mind’s eye she glowed like a light. Every day and night he thought of her, conjured up her image in his mind, trying to imagine what she was doing, how she looked, tracing every curve of her face in his mind, remembering her magnificent green eyes and the soft sweetness of her lips. He relived every minute he had spent with her, recalling every word, every inflection, how it had felt to hold her, to make love to her.

  They would not remain in London. He would take her to Highfield. He was eager to show Beatrice her new home. She would be happy there—they would be happy together. They would make their marriage work. They had to. If he wanted his family name and the t
itle to continue, he must start providing heirs. He wanted his life to have meaning, to have a real marriage—meaningful and lasting, a wife and children and love—not the empty relationships that passed for marriage in society.

  He wanted Beatrice more than he’d wanted anyone in his life. At thirty-one years of age and after more affairs than he cared to remember, he had fallen victim to an outrageously spirited, beautiful girl who blithely incurred his displeasure, amused and infuriated him as no other woman had ever done. He had started off determined to gain the upper hand, but somehow she had managed to get him by the throat.

  He was driven by a ridiculous eagerness to see her, as if his life depended on it. At last the carriage pulled up outside his house and he got out, smiling to himself when he saw the Merrick carriage in front. No doubt Constance was calling on Beatrice. He was glad his young wife had had company in his absence.

  He let himself in as Constance was on the point of leaving. In the process of pulling on her gloves, she stopped and stared at him in shocked amazement.

  ‘Why—Julius! You’re back! Why didn’t you let us know you were arriving today?’

  He grinned, embracing her warmly. ‘I thought I’d surprise you. It’s taken me longer than I expected tracking down that damned ship. How is Beatrice? She is well, I hope?’

  Lady Merrick became flustered as she considered how best to explain Beatrice’s absence. ‘I—I expect she is—but…’

  He was no longer smiling as servants began moving quickly in all directions to inform those who didn’t know that the master was home. ‘Expect? What are you saying, Constance?’

  ‘Beatrice isn’t here, Julius. She’s—at Larkhill.’

  For a moment Julius was unable to absorb the full shock of what she said. In a low, deadly voice, he said, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That Beatrice is at Larkhill.’

  ‘But I specifically told her I wanted her to remain here in London until my return. I was under the impression that she would do just that.’