by Regina Darcy
“I will send up some supper for you, dear girl,” she told her.
Phoebe thought she might be too tired and excited to eat, but when the food arrived, she thanked the maid and set to, eating everything that had been placed on the tray for her. Then she sat down to begin a letter to her parents which she would finish after she had seen Lord Beckton.
Next morning, a maid woke her, helped her dress and get ready for breakfast, and then she took the letter she had begun and went down to the dining room. Lady Iris was already there, and as she went over to greet her, she heard footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw him, and her heart broke. He was thinner than he had been, and a scar now marred his left cheek. He spoke to her quietly, without a trace of recognition.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said. “I do not have the pleasure of your acquaintance. I am Lord Beckton, or so I’m told. I have no recollections of my own.”
His voice was strong, his tone friendly, and Phoebe saw him as he was when relaxed and unselfconscious.
“Good morning, my lord,” she replied. “I am Miss Phoebe Alexander, your…friend.”
Thus started one of the most challenging weeks in Phoebe’s life. The Earl remembered nothing, but she remembered everything. Especially the night at the opera. The night he had made her pulse beat like no other. He had kindled her affections and now his eyes shone with pleasant interest and nothing else.
Soon Phoebe started to despair. It had been a week since her arrival, and Lord Beckton seemed no closer to remembering anything. What could she do to help him? They were walking in the garden, and the Earl was telling her about the new roses he had planted.
“They’re beautiful,” she said. “You have a green thumb, it seems. Have you always enjoyed gardening?”
He stopped walking and turned to her. “I don’t remember. But last night I had a dream.” He looked at her as if waiting for her to give him permission.
“What was the dream about?” she asked, quaking inside.
“We were dancing,” he said, “and I asked you what you would say if I asked you to marry me.” He looked at her closely. “That was a vastly strange dream, don’t you think?”
Phoebe tried to control the trembling that immediately overtook her. “It was,” she agreed, “but it wasn’t a dream, my lord.”
“What do you mean?”
“The night before you had to leave for France, we danced, and you asked me that question.”
“And what was your answer?” he wanted to know. He was tense now, and she could tell she had his full attention. He seemed to be hanging on her very words.
“I didn’t have a chance to answer you, because the dance ended.”
He inhaled deeply, and resumed his walking. Phoebe walked beside him, staying silent, not knowing how to help him. When they had made another turn about the garden, he stopped again and said, “I have loved you for a long time, haven’t I?” he asked with a frown. “Since your debut. You’re my Phoebe.”
Tears sprang to her eyes. “Yes, but I didn’t know that until your aunt told me.”
He stayed quiet for a long moment, and then he said, “I’m sorry, Miss Alexander. I never meant to hurt you by forgetting you. Will you forgive me?”
Phoebe sniffed, and dabbed at her nose and eyes with her handkerchief. “I will, if you will call me Phoebe again,” she replied with a tremulous smile.
He turned to her fully and took hold of her hand. “So, what would your answer have been to my question, Phoebe?”
She did not pretend not to know what he meant. “I believe it would have been yes, my lord.” She blushed when he raised her hand to his lips.
EPILOGUE
Lord Beckton’s memory returned slowly. Phoebe returned to her parents’ home, and he visited her there, and proposed to her, gifting her with a beautiful emerald.
“To match your eyes, my love,” he told her.
When December came, he invited her family for Christmas. During that time, her mother and his aunt planned their wedding. Neither of them cared what was done. They were happy getting to know each other, and when the last puzzle piece of the gap in his memory was filled, Lord Beckton held a ball to celebrate. He announced his engagement at the ball, and accepted everyone’s hearty congratulations.
On the evening before his wedding Lord Wiltshire, who was to be his best man, reminded him of the time when they had both despaired of his ever getting the woman of his dreams. They were having a last drink in his study before retiring for the night.
“It has been a long and difficult year, for sure,” Lord Beckton agreed, “but I am happy now. I have a most estimable prize in Phoebe, and I will do everything to ensure her happiness.” He looked at his friend and added, “Now all that remains is for you to let go of your past, and embrace the future with a bride of your own. Maybe with that wood nymph you mentioned?”
“Let’s get you married first before we start planning my own imprisonment,” Lord Wiltshire laughed.
Lord Beckton laughed with him, but the next night in their bedchamber, as he kissed his wife full on the mouth and tasted her sweet essence, he knew that he had not been imprisoned, he had been liberated. And he would revel in his newfound freedom for the rest of his life.
THE END
BONUS CHAPTER 1:
–
THE EARL AND the GIRL FROM THE ABBEY
ONE
Miss Beatrice Seton looked so forlorn that, despite herself, her aunt felt a smile begin to tilt the stern set of her lips. Beatrice saw it too and her expression changed immediately. “You see, Auntie, you do understand! You know that I’m simply not suitable for the order.”
“Reverend Mother,” the Abbess chided her niece gently.
“You must remember to call me by my title child.”
“But there’s no one here but you and me, Aunty Jane. You know that I always remember when I’m with the other novices or the sisters.” Beatrice replied with a shrug. Then she leaned in eagerly and continued the conversation that had started several weeks ago.
“Auntie Jane, you do understand, don’t you? I want to live in the world, not closed off from it. I want to fall in love and marry, I want children. What’s wrong with that?” Beatrice’s brown eyes were intent with the ardour of youth for claiming what it regarded as its due. She was young and although she had no awareness of her beauty, the Abbess knew that Beatrice was a lovely girl who could, if she were out in Society, have held her own with the belles of London.
The Abbess sighed. They were in her study, a simple but well-furnished room which reflected both her religious vocation and the family wealth that she had brought with her when she chose to leave the life of affluence and worldliness in favour of the convent. Now, years later, she was the Abbess of Boxley Abbey, a position she had held for over twenty years.
“Your mother’s dying wish was for me to protect you and keep you safe,” she said. “She fled France during the Terror so that you would be safe. I cannot forget my promise to her.” The Abbess recalled those terrifying years and the uncertainty that had clouded their lives. She had been a sister at St. Margeaux convent in France, but back then, not even the religious houses were safe from the rage of the public.
Beatrice didn’t remember her mother, who had died just hours after Beatrice’s birth. But the Abbess treasured her likeness of the frail, lovely Lisette who had married a French peer. Tragically, her husband, the Comte de Villegagnon had been one of the first aristocrats to lose his head to Madame La Guillotine, as the French revolted against their king and queen, the church, and all sanity. The Abbess, the members of her order and her young niece, had fled as well, to England, where they would be safer, despite being a Catholic minority in a heathen country of Protestants. But the order had thrived thanks to the Abbess’ shrewd business sense and warm-hearted compassion. The sisters made herbal tonics and salves that they sold, however the healing that they offered to the community was given at no cost. Still, it suited the Abbess to be able to have
a product which benefitted those who used it while providing the Abbey with a livelihood. The medicines were crafted from the years of experience that the sisters had gained from their knowledge of the herbs.
As she turned towards her bureau and sat back down, she focused her attention back on her niece.
“But surely Maman would have understood. She married!”
The smile left the lips of the Abbess. Yes, Lisette had married, and had died in childbirth, a widow before her child was born. It was, the Abbess realized, the fate of many women in the world, when childbirth was as dangerous for females, as warfare was for soldiers in battle. Although women were rarely credited for the courage of giving birth.
She sighed deeply. She could not protect Beatrice from all that life would do to her but she had hoped that her niece would find a calling in the Abbey. However, clearly that was not to be.
“She would not have wanted me to wither away inside a convent.”
“I was not proposing that you should wither away,” the Abbess replied drily. She fingered the ornate jewelled cross that hung around her neck. “You are a wealthy young woman, as you know. Although there may be no way of claiming your French lands and inheritance, your mother travelled to England with gold and jewels. You will be a very attractive matrimonial prospect for a husband, but I want you to marry wisely.”
“I want to love the man I marry,” Beatrice said, her full lower lip trembled. It was halfway between a pout and a sob, as if she were already considering the prospect of a marriage to someone she did not love.
“And I want you to marry someone who will be a good husband. A man of good character.” The Abbess did not add that she intended her niece to acquire a title. The heiress to the de Villegagnon fortune was not a pauper on her maternal side; Lisette and the Abbess had come from a gentile line,. That breeding and wealth would not be thrown away on someone of inferior rank. “I am not averse to you marrying,” she said finally.
Beatrice’s hair was hidden by the head-covering that all the novices wore, but her brown eyes could not be concealed and they were bright with joy. “Thank you, Auntie!”
“But I will choose your husband,” the Abbess interjected firmly. “I will choose wisely, with God’s guidance. But I will be discerning. We will pray over this matter.”
Beatrice had already been praying that God would send her a husband. Someone tall and handsome, who knew how to tie a cravat that Beau Brummel would approve of; someone whose locks were arranged in a Brutus hair style, or perhaps a Bedford Crop.
Or perhaps a man in uniform who was fighting with Lord Wellington; soldiers looked so very handsome. But with Bonaparte ruling over France and, it seemed, half of Europe, marriage to a soldier would mean that he was very likely to have to join his regiment and that was not at all a pleasant thought. “A Corinthian!” Beatrice breathed.
“Really, Beatrice, where do you hear these things?” the Abbess inquired. “When you go into the village you are supposed to have your mind on the service to the poor, not on gentlemen.” The Abbess picked up her quill pen. “Run along, now. It’s nearly time for vespers.”
“You will find me a husband soon?” Beatrice asked eagerly.
“Yes. I will let it be known that a member of my family who has not taken her vows has expressed a desire to leave the Abbey and that I am seeking a worthy man for her to marry,” the Abbess replied with a bemused smile.
“Now run along.”
Worthy sounded very dull, Beatrice thought. She had hoped that she would be allowed to leave the Abbey and be taken in by someone of the ton who would steer her into Society. Someone to supervise her coming out, and chaperone her for balls and social events so that she could meet dashing young gentlemen. She smiled as she imagined how they would kiss her hand when no one was looking, recite odes to her beauty, and tell her that her eyes were as bright as gemstones, and woo her with passion.
Beatrice was not quite sure what passion consisted of, apart from the manner in which it was presented in the pages of the pamphlets that she surreptitiously read at night when she was alone, but it sounded like something that would be very exciting. Yes, excitement was something Beatrice believed she was ready to encounter.
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BONUS CHAPTER 2:
–
BEWITCHING THE VISCOUNT
ONE
Lord Nathaniel Hughes, the Viscount of Wiltshire, commonly referred to as “Hughes” by his friends, was bored. Ever since his close friend, the Duke of Staffordshire, had tied the knot with the beautiful Miss Georgette Danford, he had been questioning his own bachelor status.
The loving bliss the couple exuded had him longing for something other than his current, temporary liaisons with married women. He was by no means looking for a love match, far from it. However, the issue of an heir was of outmost importance. The only problem with his new, inexplicable, yearning was that he did not trust women at all.
Anything else would have been unusual; after all, he had witnessed the treacherous nature of a woman first-hand.
Now, Nathaniel was not prone to the incessant musings that afflicted many gentlemen of his advanced age. That said, at twenty-eight, surrounded by several gentlemen who were already married, he was hard pressed to ignore the need to father a legitimate heir. This was one of the reasons he was now languishing in the Gloucestershire countryside.
Bored to tears in London, he had decided to visit his cousin at Langdon Manor. He had the misfortune to have agreed to stay for three whole weeks when he first arrived. Having spent two weeks in the company of his nieces, he was happy to notice he had now somewhat regained his senses. As he suspected, the delightful little monsters had been exactly what the doctor ordered. Five more days of Uncle Nathaniel this, Uncle Nathaniel that and he could rush back to London and freedom.
Luckily, his boredom had been cut short when his dear friend Alden Haddington, the Earl of Beckton, had come calling. He had known Beckton for several years. Both had served in the same regiment under the Duke of Staffordshire. The Earl had particularly strong, disapproving views on Nathaniel’s string of mistresses. The irony was that the Earl was known to have left an equal trail of heartbroken beauties behind him. The only difference being, he had never touched them.
Beckton was currently an esteemed Member of Parliament. Although he was certainly very vocal in the House of Lords, Nathaniel was one of the few people who knew Beckton found the challenge of conversing with the fairer sex, insurmountable. He had yet to finish a sensible conversation with any eligible young woman he had actual designs on. Half the broken hearts he left behind him were due to disinterest, and the rest due to an inability to approach the lady in question.
It was a longstanding joke between them, that at this rate he would die never having known a woman. However, despite their markedly different dispositions, his friendship with Nathaniel had remained strong over the years.
“Nathaniel, are you listening?” the Earl queried bemused. “I see you are studiously avoiding the topic,” he continued as he climbed on to his horse.
“What topic would that be?” Nathaniel replied, puzzled at the sudden line of questioning. His thoughts were elsewhere.
“That of your self-imposed loneliness.”
“Loneliness? That’s a bit harsh, my dear fellow.”
“Begging your pardon, but what would you call burying yourself in the countryside?” Beckton asked with a raised eyebrow. Nathaniel shrugged.
“Well, I am of the opinion that your loneliness would swiftly be solved by a matrimonial arrangement,” Beckton continued dryly.
“Good Grace! I am not yet at my deathbed to be sentenced to such domestic hell,” Nathaniel exclaimed. “An incidental marriage is not something I aspire for in any near future.”
The Viscount had no wish for Beckton to get a whiff of the fact that he had very much been reconsidering his bachelor status for the last couple of weeks. Once the Earl fixated on an idea, he didn’t let it be. Whilst this was u
seful in Parliament, it was highly annoying to his friends. Nathaniel had no intention of becoming his next pet project.
The Earl laughed, then grew silent and said quietly:
“How much longer are you going to let her treachery dictate your life?” His question was followed by a pregnant silence.
“I do not know what you are referring to,” Nathaniel replied, squirming in his saddle.
Beckton seemed to sense his rising discomfort, and let that particular matter drop by changing the subject. “Sooner or later you will have to produce an heir,” he said instead. “You know as well as I do that your cousin Albert is not the right man to wear your coronet with dignity.”
Nathaniel laughed aloud. His cousin Albert was fat, bald and mostly intolerable. He turned in his saddle to face his friend. “Any woman I would marry would find me insufferable and swiftly be plotting my murder.”
“Beget your heir first,” Beckton replied with mirth, “then you can see how long it takes for one of you to throw the other in the lake.” Both men chuckled ruefully. “Right, I best be on my way. I am due in London in a week,” the Earl exclaimed.
“Rushing off? Do not tell me it is the lovely Phoebe Alexander that is your urgent business,” Nathaniel replied with a knowing smirk. “When are you going to get the courage to tell her she has stolen your heart?”
“Right after you get married and produce an heir, old chap,” Beckton retorted without missing a beat.
“So never then?”
The Earl laughed, bid his friend goodbye and set his horse to a gallop across the manor drive and on to the road towards London.
Nathaniel watched him race on with a wistful smile. He was loath to turn back towards the house. On an impulse, he decided to explore the surrounding landscape instead. This would be a great opportunity to take a break from his nieces. He urged his horse into a trot and was soon deep into the Gloucestershire countryside. The peace of his surroundings was working surprising wonders on his nerves. As he reached the outskirts of the Crown Forest of Dean, he dismounted, tied his horse and continued on foot.