Page 39 of A Widow for the Earl
Aweek passed and tentative normality returned to Wycliffe Manor. Beatrice grew accustomed to being alone again, enjoying her solitude again, engaging with the staff as if they were family. She no longer concerned herself withwhenVincent might return, but what sort of manor he might return to when he did come back.
“Can you put them slightly closer together?” she asked, taking in the full view of the Baroque-style stage she had constructed. Rather, that she had wrangled a few of the male servants into building.
The footlights flickered as the footmen diligently moved them closer to one another, the hazy glowalmostperfectly angled to illuminate whatever thespians might perform across the stage.
“Now, close the curtains, so I can make sure we are not going to cause a fire,” she said, not wanting to test their patience.
They had already been so generous with their time, hearing her mad idea and leaping into action to make it a reality. She could not have cherished these people more, safe in the knowledge that the estate was paying them fairly. After all, she did not want to be accused ofstealingtheir time.
“Everyone stand back!” one of the footmen warned.
His counterpart on the other side of the stage readied himself to undo the tassel that held the curtain open. At the first footman’s command, they both released the luxurious, heavy velvet drapes in perfect unison. The curtains swung inward, meeting with a rush of air and a gentle bump.
“Perfect!” Beatrice chirped joyfully, clapping her hands together.
The red curtains had closed precisely as she had hoped they would, far enough from the flickering flames of the footlights to not cause harm, yet not so far that they shortened the stage too much.
“Will there be puppets again?” one of the servants asked, admiring the new stage from the doorway of the room.
Beatrice smiled. “Oh, there shall hopefully be all sorts of performances for us to enjoy.” She gestured off to the side of the stage, where a circle of wooden slats had been put up and draped in that same beautiful red velvet. “There is enough room there for a ten-piece ensemble. We shall have theater, we shall have music, we shall haveallthe amusements.”
“Will you invite guests?” a maid asked, eyes bright with the prospect of fine young gentlemen wandering the manor.
“I certainly hope so,” Beatrice replied, affecting a sigh. “That is, of course, as long as Lord Grayling likes what we have done here.”
A grumble rippled through the gathered servants, who had watched the stage being created with eager excitement. They would not be happy if Vincent decided to undo all that hard work, denying them the entertainment that they had been looking forward to.
I shall turn them all against you, Vincent.
Indeed, she was certain he would be livid when he saw the ‘renovation’ to the old reading room where he seemed to like spending his evenings. Away from her, of course. And once he heard how much it had cost… well, he would surely explode.
He did not need to know that the money had come from her own personal accounts. No one would ever know about those.
“Does this mean it’s finished, my lady?” one of the perspiring footmen asked, mopping his brow with his sleeve.
Beatrice grinned. “Why, yes, I do believe it is.”
Now, all I have to do is wait…
She did not know when Vincent intended to return from London, but she was a patient woman. And certainly not an idle one. For there were countless rooms that she had considered renovating: the longer he stayed away, the more surprises he would have to face when he finally came back. Indeed, he might not recognize Wycliffe Manor at all.
The moment she had waited for came that very evening, as she sat by the fireplace in the drawing room, absently reading through the popular periodicals that she had managed to track down:The Bride of Death.
There could be no denying that the story was more than inspired by Beatrice, cataloguing the past year’s constant misfortune into a barely veiled fiction. Yet, she could not understand why society relished the periodical so much: it was poorly written, the female protagonist insufferable, the gentlemen like angels in comparison, with the firm assumption that the main character, Beatrix, was a murderess who killed with impunity.
But what is her reason for doing it? It is never explained.
Just as she was about to toss the entire collection into the fireplace, she heard the front door shriek open, closing again with a faint slam. Commanding footsteps echoed through the hallway beyond the drawing room, a low, masculine voice exchanging words with Mr. Bolam.
He came back…
She sat perfectly still, more interested in the drama that was about to unfold inside her own home than anything written by a halfwit. Her heart beat faster in her chest as she listened, hearing Vincent stride on past the drawing room, down the hallway to where he wouldsurelydiscover her new theater.
Clasping a hand to her collarbone, she could hardly contain her nervous excitement as she heard that very door—the one to her lovingly crafted theater—open. The hinges had a very particular whine that she would have known anywhere, for she knew the sounds of this beloved house better than she knew the freckles on her forearm.
Quietly, she got up off the floor and rearranged herself on the chaise-longue, curling up with her head on a cushion as if she had dozed off. All the while, listening.
It cannot be long now. Oh, how delicious this will be!
