by Millie Adams
Perhaps he preferred them to the company of the ghosts that he found inside it.
He stopped there, at the edge of a grove of trees, and he could still see the fluttering white. Moving forward and backwards. Closer and further away. He took a step forward, then another. And suddenly realised.
‘You could catch your death out here,’ he said.
‘Briggs?’
He had been right. It was Beatrice. He could not mistake her bright, starlit voice. It was like silver.
As he got closer, he understood what he’d seen from the window. She was suspended on a swing that hung in the centre of the grove of trees.
‘Lucky for you. Not a highwayman. Or anything else intent on stealing whatever fortune you have on your person or your virtue.’
Her virtue.
He should not think of her virtue.
And yet, it was difficult to avoid thinking of it altogether. Her brother had concerns about her bearing a child, but there were many ways to find pleasure...
It was far too easy in that moment to imagine her as the virgin sacrifice in her white nightgown. Far too easy to imagine her sinking to her knees before him...
You will not be teaching her the ways you find pleasure.
She would be disgusted. Likely go screaming right back to her brother, who would ensure Briggs lived out the rest of his days as a eunuch.
‘What are you doing out here?’
‘I thought I saw an apparition outside my window.’
‘I am not an apparition,’ she said. ‘I am just Beatrice.’
‘A relief.’
Her hair was loose; he had never seen it so. Falling over her shoulders in thick, heavy curls. She was pale and wide-eyed in the moonlight. Like a virgin sacrifice to be taken by the gods.
But not by him.
‘I am... I am considering my life in your servitude, Your Grace.’
‘Servitude?’
‘I’m not free. Was that not the discussion we had mere days ago?’
‘You will be freer with me than you ever have been before,’ he said, and at the same time he wondered if that were strictly true. ‘You will have the protection of being a married lady. Scandal will not be able to touch you quite so easily.’
Though because of her health... She would not have all the freedoms that she might’ve had otherwise. But he would not say something. Not now. Not when he was trying to comfort her. A task he was unequal to. For he was not one to offer comfort to anyone.
‘And what sort of freedoms will I have?’
‘What do you wish, Beatrice?’
She closed her eyes. ‘I wish to see things. More than this place. I did not ask for this,’ she said. ‘I did not ask to be ill. To be fragile. It is an insult, I feel, that my spirit does not match my body. For I have always felt that I...’ She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, a shaft of moonlight illuminating her skin. And he could see that her nightgown was...
Transparent.
Even in the dimness of the moonlight he could see the shadow of her nipples, the faint impression of dark curls between her thighs.
She was like a goddess. Beautiful. Untouchable.
Absolutely untouchable, no matter that he was to be her husband.
He had married a woman so like her. Serena had been fragile. Beautiful. Virginal. And utterly unprepared for him. Their life together had not been happy. In fact, he felt, unavoidably, that he was part of her being driven to such despair that she could no longer live.
The one person on earth he had attempted to connect with. The one person he had attempted to find a real relationship with and it had...
He had not loved her. But he had thought that he might one day. He had been ready to fight for that. To make it his aim.
But in the end, he had disgusted her. He had told her he would change. That he did not need to indulge himself.
She’d said now that she knew, she could not see him the same again.
She’d barely tolerated intimacy as it was.
‘When I read stories, I imagine myself as the heroine. I can see myself slaying dragons and defeating armies, riding a horse through the fields as fast as possible, and... Falling in love. But then to be told that my body cannot do those things... How is that fair? Why could I have not been given a sweet, retiring nature? There are many women who are happy to be home. Who are happy...’ She shook her head. ‘Of course, I don’t suppose any woman wishes to be told she cannot have children.’
‘Some might see it as a path of ultimate freedom, in many ways,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
The sadness of Beatrice, the thwarting of her plans, the realisation that he was...
That he was the master in her life now, that all compelled him to offer her something. To speak, even when it hit against sharp places in his soul.
‘When you have a child, your cares will be with them always. Your life will never fully be your own. To have another person placed in your care like that is to never truly have your heart beat for itself ever again.’ He swallowed. ‘At least that is my experience of it.’ He did not speak much of fatherhood. But for him it was... A painful reminder of his childhood, and he could not escape the feeling of shortcoming that he had now either. He did not know sometimes how to reach his son.
‘It must be wonderful to love like that,’ she said.
‘I don’t know that wonderful is the word I would use.’
‘Well, I will never have the chance, will I? Except... I will care for your child, Briggs. I will. I promise. I will be his mother, if... I’m sorry, I do not wish to bring up memories of your late wife. And I do not wish to cause any hurt. But...’
‘I do not hold in my heart a deep grief for Serena. Do not concern yourself with my feelings.’
‘I just should not wish to erase her memory.’
‘If William cannot remember her then it is her own fault.’
He could see that she was confused by that, but she did not ask, and he did not offer explanation. Of course, the fact that the late Duchess had taken her own life was something that was rumoured among the ton, and it did not surprise him that it had not trickled down to Beatrice.
She had cut her wrists in the bath. Her maid had found her, the screams alerting the entire house to the tragedy.
He remembered lifting her from the water still...being covered in water and in her blood.
And the sorrow.
The sorrow of having failed someone so very deeply.
Serena, but also William.
Her family had gone to great lengths to pay to have her buried in the church graveyard. He could admit he would not have done so. His grief had been nearly as intense as his anger, and his concern had not been in where she might be laid to rest, but on what he might tell his son.
Her family had worried only about the disgrace.
They had paid handsomely for her death to be called a drowning. An accident.
Though there were enough rumours in the ton about the truth of it. They only wished to whisper behind their hands and fans, about the Duchess burning in hell.
They did not behave in a way so bold as to speak of it openly.
It was the cowardice in that which bothered him most of all. That those people had no such principles as to allow themselves to expose their meanness so boldly and loudly.
It was, he thought, the greatest tragedy of their society.
The way certain things were hidden. It did not make them less prolific for all their concealing of such vices. All manner of bad behaviour flourished in the world. It was only those who should be protected from it who were left ignorant of its existence, and therefore susceptible to brutality.
‘Then I shall do my best for him,’ Beatrice said, determined.
‘He is a... He is a wilful boy,’ Briggs said. ‘He is n
ot terribly affectionate. You may find him difficult.’
He felt disloyal saying such a thing, but it was true. If she was expecting an easy path to dealing with the void she felt over not being able to have children of her own, she was likely not going to find it filled in his house.
‘I do not have a perfect idea in my head of what it means to have a child,’ she said. ‘I was warned against fantasising about such things, and so I didn’t. I will not find it difficult to love who he is. There is no idea of him built up in my head as to what I feel he should be.’
Her words, just then, were a revelation. For wasn’t that the true enemy of happiness? Expectation that could not be met.
He was well familiar with it. Far too familiar.
He moved closer to her, and then behind, grabbing hold of the swing and pulling it back. His knuckles brushed her hair, soft and silken. And he could smell her skin. Rose water and something delicately feminine that he could not place.
Perhaps it was simply Beatrice.
He released the swing, and she floated gently forward, her hair streaming behind her. And when she came back, he caught her, holding her steady, lowering his head and whispering in her ear, ‘I think we will find a way, don’t you?’
He released his hold on her again. He could not decide if prior to this he would never have put himself in this position with his friend’s sister, never would’ve been alone with her, or if it would not have felt...weighted.
Because he had been somewhat isolated with Beatrice on any number of occasions. Here at the house, they had not been so formal. Kendal had trusted him, and he had never once moved to violate that trust. And would not have. But he was marrying her now, and whether or not it was to be a real marriage, it had shifted the positioning of their relationship. Had shifted the way he saw her.
Forced him to realise that she was a woman.
On that thought, she returned to him.
‘Will we?’ She turned to face him, and it brought her mouth perilously close to his. It was plump, and soft looking. In that moment, he felt an undeniable sense of the tragic. For it was possible that for her protection, no man would ever taste that mouth.
No man would ever be able to tap into that passion that existed beneath the surface of her skin, for it did. And that he had always known. It was perhaps why he had always favoured her. Why he had brought her sweets from London.
Why he had taken the extra time to talk to her. Because she was trapped here at the estate, and there was so much more to her than she would ever be able to express. She was right. Right then he could feel it. The storm beneath her skin that she was not allowed to let out. She was staring at him, her eyes filled with questions that were not his place to answer.
He could feel her fury. Her fury in the inability to get those answers.
Poor Beatrice.
‘I do not intend to make you miserable,’ he said.
‘But you will not take me to storm armies either, will you?’
‘The primary problem with that,’ he said, releasing hold of her again and letting her fly through the air, before bringing her back to him, ‘is that I do not know at present where there are any enemy armies, on my life.’
‘Surely you can find some, Briggs. I have great confidence in your abilities.’
‘In my ability to start a war?’
‘Yes.’
‘Should you like to be my Helen of Troy, Beatrice?’ he whispered, far too close to her ear, as he brought her back to his chest, her scent toying with him now. ‘Shall I launch a thousand ships for you?’
He pushed her forward again. ‘But I do not wish to sit at home,’ she said, looking back as she drew away from him. ‘I wish to fight.’
‘It is still the same result, is it not? A war, all for a woman.’
‘I imagine I nearly started a war between you and my brother.’
He continued to push her on the swing, allowing her to fly free before bringing her back. Only ever letting her so far. So high.
‘He believed me easily enough.’
‘Because he does not think me capable of anything truly shocking,’ she said.
‘Because he trusts me,’ he said, wondering right then if he was worthy of his friend’s trust. For as he brought her back, through the swing back, he ended up pressing the warmth of her body against his.
And he could feel the softness of her hair against his chin. And he knew that he was going to have to visit a brothel when they returned to London.
As a newly married man, he would be visiting a brothel.
He nearly curled his lip. Disgusted with himself.
But then, that was the state of things. He was not necessarily proud of the man he had become. But he was not waging a war against his nature either.
And in this instance it was a kindness to his wife.
For many reasons.
‘I’m sorry,’ Beatrice said. ‘Of course that is true. I did not think of it that way.’ She let out a slow breath, and he could feel it shift her frame. Then she leaned her head back, and it came to rest upon his chest. She jumped, but did not move. And he simply held her there, his hands gripping the ropes on the swing so tightly he thought he might cut his skin open. ‘Am I unbearably selfish?’
His chest felt tight. The rest of him felt...hard.
‘You are selfish, perhaps,’ he said, his voice rough. ‘But we all are. And the world favours the selfishness of men. You did what you thought you had to.’
‘I would feel better if you were angry with me,’ she said.
He laughed. ‘I apologise for not being able to accommodate.’
He released his hold on her and she made a small sound of surprise as she went careening forward. But his heart was thundering too hard, and he should not hold her against his body that way.
‘Why can’t you be angry with me?’
‘Because my freedom is not in question. I will continue to do exactly as I please. As I have always done.’
She laughed softly. ‘You’ve already told me that isn’t true. You have a child. Your heart does not beat simply for you.’
He had nothing to say to that, so he pushed her again on the swing.
* * *
Beatrice felt breathless. She did not know why. Not breathless in the way that had marked her childhood. Breathless in a way that frightened her.
This breathlessness was not unpleasant. Being close to him was not unpleasant. He had a solid presence that made her feel... Quieted. She had always liked being around him, but this was different. Leaning her head on his chest had felt natural, though she knew it was not proper. She was past proper. She had failed at being proper; she had gone and ruined herself, hadn’t she?
He pulled the swing near him again, and she could feel the heat from his body. She felt warm herself.
Her heart thundered almost painfully. He moved his hands, his fingertips brushing against her shoulders, and she shivered. She could sense his strength, and she wanted to lean into it. To test it. In a way that she was never allowed to test her own.
Tears stung her eyes. Because she felt like she was on the verge of something that she would never fully be able to immerse herself in.
Never fully be able to understand.
She turned her head again to look at him, and most of all to chase that strange prickling feeling she had felt before. When she had turned to face him on the swing and their faces had been so close. She was closer to Briggs than she had ever been to a man before. Well, with the exception of that moment in the library when he had put his hand on her hindquarters.
‘I would give anything to taste that sort of freedom,’ she whispered. ‘To know what it’s like.’
‘People do things... To find that,’ he said, his voice low, shivering over her skin in a way that left her feeling shaken. ‘To find that sense of pushing again
st the edges. They take themselves to extremes. But it is not always advisable.’
‘Who gets to decide?’ she whispered.
‘I suppose whoever has the greatest interest in keeping you safe.’
‘I sometimes wonder, though, at what point you must abandon safety in order to live. I feel like men are so rarely asked to make these choices. Or at least, if they must, they are the ones in charge of those decisions.’
‘Sometimes you have to trust that those who care for you might choose a better path for you than you would choose for yourself.’
He meant him. He meant choosing for her. ‘Why must I trust that?’
‘I do not have a good answer for you, Beatrice.’
‘That is disappointing. You have no anger for me, and you have no answers for me.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not.’
‘We are to be married tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I do not know what it means to be a wife.’
‘You do not have to know what it means to be a wife,’ he said. ‘You will be a wife to me, and there will be a specific way that can play out. But I will make sure you know everything to do.’
And amid all the uncertainty she found that promise supremely comforting. It was all she had to cling to. And cling to it, she would.
Chapter Five
Briggs had managed to procure the licence easily enough. And he had gone back to Bybee House, though his housekeeper had asked him if he wished William to come to the wedding.
‘I should not like to disrupt his schedule.’
‘You do not think he might wish to see you married?’
The only reason that Mrs Brown could get away with speaking to him in such a way was that she had been with the house since he was a boy. And she had certainly spent more time with him than his own parents.
‘I do not think that,’ he said. ‘He would find it dull, and the trip would only be taxing.’
And so he was now at the church, prepared to do what he must.
There would be few people in attendance. Beatrice’s mother, he assumed Kendal’s ward, as she was good friends with Beatrice. And Kendal himself, of course. But other than the minister, he did not imagine there would be another.