‘I must beg pardon. It’s my age, you see. I’m slow.’ His face revealed no expression. ‘Forgetful. It is hard to remember how a person should act.’
‘Nonsense,’ she muttered. Then she appraised him. ‘How old are you?’
‘One hundred and three—in butler years.’
The maid stopped behind them, carrying Beatrice’s reticule, her book and her favourite woollen wrap that she only used in the carriage, because it was quite tattered, but so comforting.
‘And what is that in people years?’ Beatrice asked the butler.
‘I cannot remember.’
‘Arthur—’
‘It’s Arturo.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
He raised his nose, and spoke with the same air as King George. ‘I am quite sure, madam. I was there.’
‘It’s Arthur.’ Arthur’s father had been the old duke’s butler, and to lessen the confusion when both men were servants in the same household, Arthur had been called by his given name.
He gave a rumble from behind closed lips and then spoke. ‘Whatever Lady Riverton wishes. But Lady Riverton could take better care of her garments. Mrs Standen complains when you’re careless and she has to do extra mending.’
Beatrice smiled. ‘Listening to a wife is a husband’s duty, Arthur.’
‘Arturo.’
‘Arthur,’ she commanded. Shaking her head, she moved to the front door, using both hands to lift the dress so the torn hem didn’t drag. She stopped at the base of the stairs, turning back to see the butler’s eyes on her.
She gave him her best snarl, and even though his eyes were focused on nothing his lip edged into a smile.
She moved up the stairs and the maid followed along.
‘Dash it,’ Beatrice grumbled to herself, examining her feet. ‘I do not know what I was thinking when I chose these slippers to wear to Aunt’s house.’
Taking painful steps, Beatrice scrambled upwards, pleased to be spending time at her brother’s London town house instead of her country estate. ‘Go to the kitchen and have Cook prepare something delicious,’ she instructed her maid.
When Beatrice reached her room, she sailed past and moved on, stopping at her companion’s door. Without knocking, she pushed it open, speaking as she entered. ‘Tilly. I could not believe...’ She paused, staring at her companion. Tilly dropped the comb in her hand.
Tilly wore the amethysts. The amethysts Riverton had given her before they married. And—she gasped—Beatrice’s own dress. She’d recognise the capped sleeves with lace hearts anywhere. And the bodice. Fortunately, Tilly didn’t fill it out quite as well as Beatrice. She needed a few stitches to take in the gaping top.
True, Tilly was a cousin and deserved some leeway, but not the dress.
‘Cousin, dearest...’ Beatrice kept her voice sweet—overly kind ‘...when you took ill and couldn’t go with me to your mother’s, I understood. Now I wonder what kind of illness requires amethysts.’ She walked closer, examining Tilly, noting the redness of her face. ‘In case you hadn’t guessed, I didn’t stay at your mother’s as long as planned. Returned early to make sure you were feeling better.’ She frowned, taking a step closer, noting again the colour of Tilly’s face and not all of it belonged to emotions. Beatrice sensed a hint of rouge on her companion’s lips and some face powder. ‘I believe your megrim has quite faded. Am I right, Tilly?’
‘Yes,’ Tilly mumbled, eyes not quite subservient.
‘Tilly.’ Beatrice stopped. ‘You will personally launder the dress this moment and return it to my room. You know full well it is The Terrible Dress.’
‘Yes.’ Tilly dropped her head. ‘I know you never wear it, so I thought—’
‘I never wear it because it is the one I had made for— And I had it on the day that...’ She crossed her arms.
‘But he’s dead now.’ Tilly’s chin jutted. ‘Died in another woman’s arms, I heard.’
‘Fine, Tilly.’ Beatrice took a step forward. ‘You may have the dress. Keep it. I will have your things sent after you. Go tell the groom you’ll be leaving as soon as they’ve eaten. Tell them to take you to my house to work with the housekeeper.’
‘I refuse. I am sick of the smell of your paints and I am sick of not going to soirées and I am mostly sick of you.’ Tilly reached behind her neck and unclasped the amethysts, and thrust the necklace into Beatrice’s hand. ‘You truly are a beast.’ She pulled at the pearl earrings, removing them, and putting them in Beatrice’s grasp as well. ‘But thank you for the dress. I look better in it than you anyway.’
Tilly reached into the wardrobe and took out a satchel, and thrust a few folded things into it. Then, leaving the wardrobe door open, she sauntered to the dressing table. She placed her brushes and scents into her case. ‘Do send my things to my mother’s house.’ She strolled across the room, Beatrice’s imported lavender perfume wafting behind her. The special blend.
Looking over her shoulder, Tilly stopped at the door. ‘And by the way, the night you threw the vase at your husband...’ her voice lowered to a throaty whisper ‘...I made it all better for him on the library sofa.’ The door clicked shut.
Beatrice shut her eyes. Riverton. The piece of tripe had been dead over two years and she still didn’t have him properly buried. He kept laughing at her from the grave.
She’d moved from the house and stayed with her brother to get Riverton’s memory to fade, but nothing worked.
Love. The biggest jest on earth. Marriage. A spiderweb of gigantic proportions to trap hearts and suck them dry.
She kept the jewellery in her left hand, then went to the wardrobe and looked inside. A stack of linens. She picked up a pair of gloves she remembered purchasing, but wasn’t certain she’d given Tilly. She slammed them back into the wardrobe. Tilly could have them with good wishes.
Beatrice shuffled through more things belonging to her companion, then she sat on Tilly’s bed. Looking around the room, she noticed the faded curtains. Those had once been in the sitting room and they’d been cut down. And the counterpane on the bed, it had once belonged— She supposed it had been on her bed, then later someone had altered it to make it smaller.
So Tilly thought she had a right to the discards—even Beatrice’s husband. She held up the amethysts. But these were not tossed out. She doubted she’d ever wear them again. She’d visit the jewellers and see if he might reset them into something more cheerful.
A tepid knock sounded at the door.
She supposed it was Tilly, wanting to beg for forgiveness—or a chance at the pearl earrings.
‘Enter.’
The maid opened the door, then took a step back. ‘My apologies, Lady Riverton. I came to tell Miss Tilly a note had arrived.’
Beatrice clenched the jewellery in one hand, and then held out the other, unfurling it forward, palm up.
The maid’s eyes showed her realisation that she had no choice. Slowly, she put the paper in Beatrice’s hand.
Beatrice gave a light nod, both thanking and dismissing the servant.
When the door closed, Beatrice sat alone with the amethysts, the memories, and the note. She’d worn the lace-sleeved dress on her wedding trip. She’d also worn it the day she’d pried Riverton from the screaming maid. Then she’d had to grasp scissors from his shaving kit to keep him from her own throat. It was a wonder he didn’t get blood on the cloth, but she’d only grazed him.
The nickname she’d received