Page 52 of Her Tiger of a Duke
“Mother,” her father warned.
“I am simply looking after her. She needs someone to tell her the truth.”
Beatrice knew the truth as it was; she was too round, too quiet, and never ever enough. She let the measuring continue, pretending that the remarks made were for her benefit, rather than her humiliation. When it was done, she was marched to the pianoforte in the room, and made to play.
She was not bad at it, by any means, but that did not matter. She could have been Mozart for all her grandmother cared, and it still would not have been enough if it was her.
When she finished, there was soft applause from everyone but her. Even her grandmother Poppy was smiling at her, but not grandmother Elaine. She scowled, instead, dragging her back to the others.
“She is useless,” she snapped. “Utterly useless, and I cannot believe that you allow her to remain in your care. You have a sister, do you not?”
She pointed at her mother, and Beatrice thought of her kindly aunt. It sounded like a nice place to be, even if she knew she was not supposed to want to go there.
“She will stay here,” her father said firmly. “I cannot have her leave, for then questions will be asked.”
“Perhaps it is time that they are,” she sneered.
“Beatrice,” her mother said quickly, “you may return to your room now.”
“No, let her stay. Let her know what her mother really is.”
“Mother,” her father warned, rising to his feet. “I do not care what you think of her, she will not be listening to another word of this.”
“That is the easier way, is it not? Have your daughter never know how much better she could be, that her father refused to listen to my advice too, and now he is married to a–”
Beatrice was taken away, her ears covered, but of course she heard the word. It was cruel and biting, even if she did not know the meaning of it. When she arrived in her room once more, she collapsed onto her bed and sobbed. She was left alone once more, and she wondered if every visit she had was going to worsen the way they did.
That night, she heard her parents arguing. They did it as often as she assumed any married couple did, but unlike her grandmothers visiting she did not need to listen in to hear what was said.
“They cannot visit anymore,” her mother said, voice trembling.
“They must. It is these visits that keep my mother from telling the truth.”
“It is not the truth.”
“You would be a lot happier if you admitted it, Winona,” he said, his voice rising. “We would all have the closure that we so desperately need if you did.”
“There is nothing to admit. She is yours, and I will always say that.”
“Then why does she look nothing like me?”
“Because she looks like me,” her mother snapped. “No, she is not a little boy that is the very picture of his father, but that is not to say that I ever did anything to hurt you. I would never have done that, and you know it.”
“She was only an eight-month baby,” he grumbled, “born eight months after our wedding day, no less.”
“I will not hear another word of this,” she thundered, leaving for the stairs.
Beatrice raced under her covers, planting her head firmly on her pillow and pretending to be asleep.
She did not know what being an eight-month baby meant, nor why her father so desperately wanted her to look like him, but she knew it had to be important, and all reasons why he would never accept her fully.
Once she was older, and she understood what it meant, the tiniest part of her was pleased about it. She did not want to be hisdaughter, and she did not want to be anything like him at all. In fact, she had grown so accustomed to disappointing him that she did not see any point in trying at all. At worst, they would send her to the country, where she could live in peace.
And so, despite the dozens of gentlemen that wanted to be a suitor for her, she turned them all away. She took pleasure in doing so, knowing that her father hated it. She hoped that, eventually, he would have the nerve to say how he felt to her face, rather than hide it behind cruelty, but it never happened. Time past, and he only became more and more unkind without a real explanation.
All of it ended, however, when she met her husband.
She told Owen everything, in excruciating detail, and he winced once or twice throughout the retelling. She had not realized just how terrible it had been until she said it aloud; even her friends did not know how bad her life was, for she did not want to burden them, nor did she want them to take her in and bring shame upon themselves.
