Page 69 of A Widow for the Earl
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The party had continued in a surprisingly cheerful fashion, the unleashing of her tears doing wonders for Beatrice’s ability to perform the part of ‘completely fine.’ For an hour or two, she had actually begun to believe her own character, enjoying herself in the company of her friends, making them laugh, and laughing in return.
But now that she was in the carriage, alone, on her way back to Wycliffe, reality hit her like a bludgeon to the face.
Mrs. Stephens might be awake, baking for the morning. Baking for one.
Beatrice huffed out a strained breath, wishing she had accepted Valeria’s invitation to stay awhile.
“It would be no trouble, Bea,”she had insisted.“Charlotte will be over the moon to have you here for a while. Trust me whenI say that nothing distracts the mind so much as having a child to entertain. Please, say you will stay.”
But Beatrice had stubbornly refused.“If I stay, I might never leave. It is like removing a thorn; it is better to do it quickly. The sooner I get used to being alone at Wycliffe again, the sooner everything will go back to the way it was.”
“And if that is not possible?”
“I will just try harder at being happy by myself.”
Indeed, in that moment, Beatrice would have given anything to have Prudence chattering away in the corner, or Vincent griping about how much he did not want to attend this ball or that dinner party.
It was strange how much she missed his grumpiness, and how silent the manor could be without it. He was not someone who had created a lot of noise, but there was a stark difference between the silence of his presence and the silence of his absence. One was the silence of a library, the other was the silence of a tomb.
As the carriage began to turn into the gates of Wycliffe, her stomach lurched, a cold sweat beetling down the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, hunched over, and took deep breaths, but it did nothing to fend off the rising prickle of panic, or something like it, that shivered up from her belly.
I cannot do it. I should turn around and return to Thornhill. I should go to my cousin and offer my services as Charlotte’s nanny in return for a permanent place there.
She could not impose on Valeria withoutsomemanner of payment, regardless of the fact that Valeria would refuse. She did not want to be someone else’s burden, but if she could be useful as a nanny, then perhaps that would be enough to feel like a valuable member of the household.
Each shaky breath refused to fill her lungs properly, her consecutive breaths growing shallower and shallower. And when she felt like she could not breathe at all, her panic soared, the thought of entering that silent house filling her with stone-cold dread.
Trembling, she banged on the wall of the carriage.
“What is it, my lady?” the driver called down.
“Stop,” she rasped, her head swimming. “Stop, Davis. I… will walk awhile.”
They were not far from the little gray chapel. Perhaps, the yew tree would know what to do. Perhaps, the rowans would whisper their protective spells, sending away her heartbreak as swiftly as they dispatched the forces of evil.
The carriage rolled to a halt, and Beatrice did not hesitate. She pushed open the door and spilled out into the chilly night.
“Shall I wait for you, my lady?” Davis asked, frowning in confusion.
“No, thank you. I will make my own way to the house,” she called back, already striding with purpose toward the shadowy shape of the chapel.
The gate squeaked as she entered the graveyard, faint moonlight offering enough of a glow to let her see the path to her favorite bench. Even in her agitated state, she did not want to insult the dead by walking across their graves.
But as she picked her way down the timeworn path, a sound made her pause. For a moment, she thought she heard hoofbeats and the dulled whinny of a horse… and foolishly imagined that Vincent was riding to her. She pictured him leaping down from his horse, running toward her, offering his earnest apologies as he pulled her into his arms.
It is just the carriage,her mind reminded her, her daydream swept away like chimney smoke in a storm.
With heavier steps, she reached the bench and sat down, leaning back against the cold stone. She tilted her head up to where moonlight filtered through the crooked branches of the yew tree, waiting for the guidance of such a wise and ancient being.
“Do I have to ask you a question?” she murmured, listening to the susurration of the wind through the canopy, desperately trying to decipher its mystical language.
She chuckled bitterly to herself, wondering what she must look like to anyone passing by. A cursed woman finally descending into madness.
“Was I wrong to think that Vincent might love me back?” she said, deciding that she might as well veer headlong into the occult.
Indeed, asking a yew tree for help could not be stranger than losing three husbands on three consecutive wedding nights. She had already proven that that was possible, so why should this not be? The world, after all, was full of mysterious and inexplicable things.
