Page 3 of A Widow for the Earl
Considering her dire lack of enthusiasm and her propensity for escaping, Beatrice simply assumed that she was being guarded on the morning of her wedding. There would be a servant out in the hallway somewhere, pretending to perform some task or other, while they were secretly eavesdropping and ensuring she had not fled.
I do not yet have enough of a personal fortune to buy my own residence,was what she wanted to tell her cousin.Soon, perhaps, but I will either be married or widowed again by then.
“I imagine all of society are champing at the bit, eagerly awaiting the scandal sheets,” she said, rising from the chair of her vanity. “Did you see the article the other day?”
Teresa pulled a face. “I have been avoiding them.”
“Which one?” Valeria asked at the same time, bringing a biting laugh to Beatrice’s lips.
“The one where they called me the ‘Bride of Death.’ I rather liked it,” she replied cheerily, though there was no cheer left within her.
It was all for appearances, all so her cousin and dearest friend would not know what a shell she was, crushed by each humiliating, tragic, unfortunate wedding. Her humor was the rope that pulled her out of her despair, and though it was fraying, she clung to it fiercely.
Beatrice turned to Teresa, her false smile aching her cheeks. “I would not be surprised if your beloved author begins an entirely new periodical about a wild young thing who seems to have the terrible luck of leaving dead husbands in her wake.” She feigned a gasp, clasping her chest like a dramatic heroine. “Is it horrid luck or is it part of a murderous scheme? Find out in the next instalment.”
“The writer of my cherished Miss Savage and Captain Frostheart wouldneverdo such a thing to you,” Teresa protested, blushing a little. “But… I did hear that there is a periodical circling society that is… somewhat inspired.”
Beatrice’s heart sank, though she hoped her face did not show it. “Who is the writer?”
“I do not know,” Teresa replied. “I have tried to find out, to put an end to it, but I am not much of an investigator.”
Beatrice sniffed. “Well, whoever they are, they ought to pay me for my part as macabre muse. There is certainly no money to be had in losing husbands; I can tell you that.”
“You do not need to do that, Bea,” Valeria said quietly, crossing the room from the window seat, abandoning the bouquet of dried flowers on the sill.
“Do what?”
Valeria smiled, her eyes shining with sadness. “You do not need to behave so bravely. You are among friends.” She took hold of Beatrice’s hands. “I admire your fortitude, I always have, but… do be honest with us. How are you, really?”
The question jarred Beatrice, who had been rehearsing other jests and quips in her head to bolster her blasé performance. She had not thought she was so transparent. Indeed, she had thought she had done rather well, pretending that everything was quite all right, and that this was just another wedding to get through.
One that might stick, this time.
“I am… tired,” she said, swallowing thickly. “And I am so nervous that I cannot stop yawning. Have you ever noticedthat, how you yawn when you are nervous? I wonder why that happens.”
Teresa nodded in understanding. “I was nervous when I married Cyrus.”
“I could not be less anxious about the wedding itself. A wedding is as commonplace to me now as washing my face in the morning,” Beatrice replied, mustering a halfhearted chuckle. “I am nervous about… Well, the obvious.”
Gasping, Teresa smacked herself lightly on the forehead. “Of course. Forgive me. I… do not know what I was thinking. Of course you are scared. Who would not be, considering what you have been through?”
“To have one husband die on the wedding night is a tragedy,” Beatrice said, reciting an article she had read about herself six months ago. “To have it happen twice is careless. I cannot even begin to think what society will say about a third incident. Beyond suspicious? Incriminating? Murderous?”
She would never admit it out loud, but she had been fleetingly relieved on her first wedding night, when her husband, Lord Albany, had not come to visit her chambers. When she had learned the following morning that he had not visited because he was dead, that relief had lingered, though it had been tinged with confusion.
There had been no relief when it happened again on her second wedding night. She had liked Lord Brinkley well enough. Hewas not someone she would have chosen to marry, because she would not have chosen anyone if it had been up to her, but he had seemed lovely: good-natured, good-humored, and kind to her during their brief meetings before the wedding. He had laughed at her jokes, too, which had put him in her good graces.
“It will not happen thrice, Bea,” Valeria insisted.
Teresa nodded. “They were terrible accidents. It could not possibly happen thrice.”
“It rather sounds like you are tempting fate,” Beatrice replied with a tight smile, giving Valeria’s hands a squeeze. “I really do think society will hunt me down with torches and pitchforks if Lord Wycliffe so much as scrapes a knee today. I pray he does not suffer anything greater than a hiccup.”
“What do you know of him?” Teresa asked, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece; it would soon be time to depart for the wedding.
Judging by the slight furrow of her brow and the flicker of her eyelids, she was more nervous about Beatrice’s third wedding than she was letting on.
Beatrice pulled away from Valeria, walking toward the window, wondering if this would finally be the last time she ever saw the view of Fetterton Manor’s grounds. It was not the grandest of manors or the most elegant of estates, but it had a rustic charm that she would miss very much. It was, after all, her home, andrather a pleasant place when her mother and father were not there.
