Page 8 of A Widow for the Earl
Beatrice sighed contentedly. “What would I do without you?”
“I’ve a feeling you’d manage well enough, putting us all to shame,” the cook replied, smiling fondly at her mistress.
“Nonsense. I would be utterly lost,” Beatrice insisted, suddenly remembering the reason she had come this way instead of through the main entrance. “Is everything arranged for the night’s entertainment?”
Mrs. Stephens nodded hesitantly. “I think so. I don’t understand it myself, but Mr. Bolam told me to tell you that everything is in place.” She paused. “You can’t tell me the surprise?”
“It would not be a surprise if I did,” Beatrice pointed out. “And I should hate to ruin it. You have all worked so hard and welcomed me so warmly; you simplymustlet me give you this gift, as intended, without asking any more about it.”
The cook sighed. “Very well, my lady. I’ll look forward to it instead.”
“I hope you will like it,” Beatrice urged, handing her the basket of berries. “I gathered these for you. The brambles areburstingout by the pond, and I doubt I have ever seen so many strawberries growing in one place.”
Mrs. Stephens took the basket, smiling. “I was just thinking I ought to send someone to gather some! You see, my lady, it’s definitely more of a matter of what wouldwedo withoutyou.”
“You must not flatter me when I have caused you nothing but trouble,” Beatrice said, her tone tinged with remorse.
“Nonsense, my lady. We are glad to have you, and I truly mean that,” the cook insisted. “Wycliffe Manor hasn’t been so joyful in decades. Perhaps I shouldn’t say that, but it’s the truth, and I won’t have you tying yourself into knots when there’s no need. You’re the finest mistress and master we’ve ever had.”
“Well… thank you,” Beatrice mumbled, rallying quickly. “Now, before I blush so fiercely that I remain a permanent shade of raspberry, I am going upstairs to change out of these clothes. After that, I will make my way to the terrace for dinner. Does that suit?”
“It does, my lady,” Mrs. Stephens replied, looking fondly at the young widow. “There ought to be a dress laid out for you already. Shall I send Marie up to help you?”
Beatrice waved away the suggestion. “I shall be quite all right alone.”
With that, she headed back the way she had come through the herb garden, choosing to take the scenic path to her bedchamber. Butterflies danced between the rosemary and mint, bees crowding the pretty fronds of lavender that would be turned into oil, to drop into Beatrice’s leisurely evening baths.
She lifted her face to the golden sunlight, so at peace and content that she could hardly believe it. When she had found Sebastian dead in his bed, she had thought the world would end, bracing herself for the witch hunt that would undoubtedly ensue. More than that, she had braced for the moment she would be kicked out of Wycliffe Manor, as she had been kicked out of Lord Albany’s, Lord Brinkley’s, and, of course, her father’s residences.
Instead, the staff of Wycliffe Manor had rallied around her, tending to her, befriending her, supporting her through the turmoil. There was no family to shun her or dismiss her, for Sebastian had had no siblings or parents living. Indeed, he did not seem to have any aunts, uncles, or cousins either.
The funeral had confirmed it: an awkward affair, where she and the same reverend who had married her to Sebastian had been the only ones in attendance.
And as there was no heir to speak of, no one coming forward to claim Wycliffe as their own, shewasmaster and mistress of this place. At least until someone realized the mistake, and the title ended up being given to someone else. Thus far, no one of authority had noticed, and she prayed it would remain that way.
It is such a small property. Perfect for me, but too insignificant for anyone to want or fight over.
“Bea!” the cry went up, starling Beatrice out of her reverie.
It had been months since she had heard her name, happily sequestered away in solitude for the mourning period.Considering the brevity of the marriage, it had been decided that four months would suffice. Indeed, it was exactly four months to the day and there, right on time, was Valeria.
“Valery? What are you doing here?” Beatrice ran across the front terrace, bounding down the two shallow steps to reach her cousin, who waited on the driveway.
“I was passing on my way to Skeffington, to see Papa,” Valeria replied. “I could not have forgiven myself if I did not stop on this, the day of your freedom from mourning. Although, in truth, I just wanted to see how you were faring. You did not respond to my last letter; I feared something might have happened to you.”
Beatrice embraced her cousin warmly. “I am quite well, Cousin. Very well, in truth. These months of seclusion have been rather good for me.” She pulled back, gesturing up at the house. “I have been busy making changes to the manor, taking long walks, getting to know the staff, enjoying myself in a way I have not done in an age. Perhaps ever.”
“I am not certain you are supposed to enjoy yourself during mourning,” Valeria said with a somewhat bewildered smile.
Beatrice shrugged. “Society thinks me wicked anyway; it does not matter how I behave anymore.” She paused. “I was alone at Fetterton so often, yet there was always the anxiety that my mother and father would return unannounced. Here, I have none of that fear. No one is coming, and it is… wonderful.”
“Should I not have come, then?” Valeria chuckled.
“Of course, I do not mean you!” Beatrice grinned. “Youare always welcome, for you are the only family I have that I actually consider to be family. Friends, too; they are perpetually welcome. I was thinking, truth be told, I might host a party in a couple of months, just for the people I like.”
Valeria nodded, more solemn than Beatrice had expected. “So, youareconsidering a reemergence into society? You have not decided to be a hermit, indefinitely?”
“Heavens, no.” Beatrice pulled a disgusted face. “You could not drag me back into society, but as long as I have my friends, I shall be perfectly content. Half a hermit, I suppose.”
