Page 9 of A Widow for the Earl
And I have my business endeavors to keep me occupied.She did not add that part aloud, for though Valeria knew she dabbled in some manner of enterprise, no one knew the full details. No one ever would.Thatwas how Beatrice planned to successfully build a lasting fortune for herself, with talent, acumen, and utter secrecy.
“It is just that… Well, there is a ball to celebrate the end of the summer,” Valeria said hesitantly. “I thought, perhaps, it might be of benefit for you to attend. I will be there with Duncan, Amelia and Lionel will be there, Isolde and Edmund have said they will be attending, and Teresa has said she will come, though she might struggle to persuade Cyrus.”
“I hope you enjoy yourselves,” Beatrice said flatly.
“Bea, come now. Youmustenter society again at some point.”
Beatrice took a heavy breath, holding her cousin’s imploring gaze. “Society did not hesitate to call me a ‘murderess.’ They say terrible things about me, even now. Why would I give them the vile satisfaction of parading myself in front of them, hearing their unkind words with my own ears? I have been in society since I was fifteen. I have had enough.”
She missed the excitement of dancing and dinner parties, of grand ballrooms and an array of gentlemen to tease, of long, giddy nights with her friends, surrounded by music and laughter. But her father had soured that, the moment he made that first match with Lord Albany. And the subsequent marriages and deaths and insults and suspicions had curdled her enjoyment of society, until the very thought of a ball was entirely revolting to her.
And if I show my face, all of this might be taken away. Someone might notice that I am in charge of a household, with no man ruling over it and me.
Small or not, someone would seek to bid for the title and estate, for the sole purpose of ensuring a woman did not have it for herself.
“The longer you stay away, Bea, the more you allow the rumors to grow wild,” Valeria said softly, regret gleaming in her eyes. “I have already heard someone say that you are practicing witchcraft in the woods, and that any scorned woman can visit you, and you will cast a spell to kill the man who crossed her.”
Beatrice snorted. “Mother always said that my pursuit of revenge for scorned ladies would one day get me in dire trouble.” She waved a dismissive hand. “If they want to believe that about me, there is nothing I can do about it. Me showing my face will not cease the rumors. If anything, it will refresh them. The best thing I can do is stay away from society until they have forgotten all about me.”
She allowed herself a small, secret smile. If society only knew about the books she had been reading, they would take leave of their senses, building a stake to lash her to in an instant. Ancient, illicit books about witches, ghosts, ghouls, demons, and everything in-between. Fascinating accounts that thrilled her as much as Teresa’s beloved novels thrilled her.
Harmless, though. Beatrice was not reading such books topracticethe occult; she read them to educate herself on the unknown, to perhaps find a reason why her husbands kept dying.
No one protested when Lionel told Amelia that he was cursed.Yet, when a woman declared she might be, everyone immediately leaped to the notion of witches and sorcery.
“Just this one ball, Bea,” Valeria urged. “If it does not go well, you never have to attend another one again. We will all be there to protect you from any cruelty.”
Beatrice rested a hand on Valeria’s shoulder. “I do not need your protection, dearest cousin, because I will not be there. I am protectingmyselfby staying here. I have no need to attend to‘find out’ what society thinks of me; I already know how they will respond, and I do not feel like disturbing my hard-won peace.” She smiled. “I adore you for trying to push me out of my shell, but I am a snail now. I have chosen to be a snail. A happy snail, happy in my snail shell, sliming my way through a slow, peaceful existence.”
Valeria mustered a faint laugh. “The most beautiful snail I ever saw.”
“Do not tell the other snails; they will be jealous,” Beatrice teased, hoping that her dear cousin would come to understand why she would not be venturing into society ever again.
It was not just what they were saying about her now, but what they had always said about her: wild, unruly, wayward, improper, disgraceful, uncouth. She might well have been all of those things, but what right did they have to judge her? How would they have behaved if they had been raised as she had?
“If you change your mind, I will be at Skeffington for a couple of days,” Valeria said. “Write to me there or come and spend some time with me. I will visit again on my way back.”
Beatrice pulled her cousin in for another hug. “Greet my uncle for me. I imagine he is horrified by me, but, nevertheless, give him my love.”
“I doubt he has heard anything about your misfortunes,” Valeria said.
Beatrice laughed, releasing her cousin. “Well then, he must be the last person in England who has not.”
A short while later, Beatrice watched as Valeria’s carriage passed the eerie chapel where Sebastian now rested, and lowered her hand from her waving as the carriage made it through the gates and disappeared behind the boxwood hedges.
She was alone again, and, rather annoyingly, less content than she had been before. It was inevitable, she supposed, that the outside world would finally breach the walls of her sanctuary.
Her four months of peace were well and truly over.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Everyone on the lawn!” Beatrice said, clapping her hands together. “The performance is about to begin!”
The twenty-strong household of servants exchanged confused looks, some amused, some wary, some smiling, some frowning. Beatrice had summoned them all into the sun room, where they made quite the crowd, though even the most bewildered followed her through the terrace doors and out onto the immaculate spread of the summer green lawns, now shaded by inky twilight.
In the past four months, they had come to know her, admire her, and like her. She had made it her mission to break through the barriers of even the most stubbornly grumpy—namely, the butler, Mr. Bolam—who had fast become her favorite, the feeling mutual.
“Is everything ready?” she whispered to Mr. Bolam as she led her congregation toward the rudimentary stage that had been constructed in the middle of the lawns, beside an old oak tree.
