A lessened man. A needy man. A man who could barely get to the front steps of his own house without help. His unwise confession burnt humiliation into his anger at everything.
Bea did not cry when she was finally home. Did not rant and rail as she had when she had thought an inability to limit strong drink was his only problem.
Today she merely sat on the window-seat with the rain on the glass behind blurring the vista and the small clock beating out the minutes and the hours of silence.
The same sound she had measured her life against for ever!
Reaching across to the table, she picked it up and threw it hard against the ground, the glass shattering as the workings inside disintegrated. Springs and metal and the face of numbers spinning around, time flown into chaos and the beginning of a quiet that she could finally think in!
Exhaling, she stood and crossed to the mantelpiece, extracting a card from a small china plate and holding it close.
The Rutledge Ball would begin at ten and Taris Wellingham was one of the patrons.
Her heart beat faster as she formulated a plan.
Chapter Six
Taris Wellingham stood with his brother and Lord Jack Henshaw at the top of the room. Tonight he was in black and was ‘much dressed’, the cut of his coat and trousers impeccable, his hair slicked back in a fashionable manner and his boots of the finest leather. But it was the glasses that he wore tonight which drew Beatrice’s attention.
She took a breath, hating the fact that he was by far the most handsome man in the room and she was by far the least beautiful woman. Still, she was not one to do things by halves and, starting forwards, she hoped that he would at least hear her out.
The arrival of the Countess of Griffin’s daughter, Lady Arabella Fisher, a woman of whom Beatrice-Maude had heard much, thwarted her intentions as she rushed through the burgeoning crowd to the side of Taris Wellingham. Her smile told Bea that she was more than enamoured by him, though his answering expression seemed tight.
Others joined them, laughing at the things he said, though Bea was too far away to make sense of any words.
What she did make sense of was the sheer and utter number of women in this room who threw him hooded glances before making their way to his side.
She swallowed. Those around him were the very pick of this Season’s debutantes, the cream of a society priding itself on lineage and ancestry. She recognised the Wilford sisters and the Wellsworth heiress, along with Lady Arabella, and was about to withdraw when a voice beside her made her jump.
‘I did not think of you as a coward, Mrs Bassingstoke.’
Emerald Wellingham stood beside her, blocking her retreat.
‘It seems then that my rudeness at your house the other day is not my only failure, your Grace.’
‘Ahh, so formal when I thought you might be a friend?’
Bea’s heart raced at the tone in her voice. Satirical. Taunting. And she could well understand why. ‘You have cause to chastise me.’
The laugh that followed set Beatrice’s nerves on edge.
‘I would say you might have to fight your way through the gathering crowd of adoring females if you wish to speak to Taris.’
‘So I see.’
‘And if I thought that was all that you saw, Mrs Bassingstoke, I might turn this minute from your company and hope that you might never darken my family’s door again with your prejudices. But there is more to you, I think. More to the singular reaction of panic that I saw on your face when you comprehended the nature of my brother-in-law’s shortfalls.’
A voice behind made both turn and the Duke of Carisbrook joined them. ‘Mrs Bassingstoke.’ Said with all the indifference of a man who could barely feign politeness.
‘Your Grace.’ Bea wished that she just might disappear into the polished floor beneath her feet. Her palms, where she held her hands like fists, were damp with nervousness, though she made herself smile.
‘If you will excuse me…’
She turned and walked through the crowd, the music of Mozart softening the hard cracks of anger that she felt boiling up in herself.
‘Tell no one…‘
Her mantra for the past decade as life had flung crisis after crisis her way, the little difficulties escalating into bigger ones, and all eminently unrectifiable.
Loud giggles from the group at the top of the room pierced her bewilderment, and she could not think what exactly to do next, though a balcony provided a way out and she slipped on to it, wiping the tears she felt pooling in her eyes as she tried to take stock of the situation.
She was twenty-eight years old and any histrionics on her part would be reprehensible and overblown, an aged woman who should have been well past undisciplined and unbecoming emotion.
The sheer and utter hopelessness of it all left her gasping and she placed her hands upon her chest, barely breathing, the silence of just standing there bringing a measure of control.
And then the door opened and Taris Wellingham came towards her, his hands around the silver ball on his ebony cane.
‘My sister-in-law informed me that you wished to see me.’
He sounded nothing like the man who had walked with her earlier in the afternoon, but all imperious and lofty.
‘I did, my lord. I came tonight to tell you that I do not quite know what came over me today and that I would like to thank you.’ Her voice was pulled from embarrassment, barely audible.
‘Thank me?’ His words were brittle. Almost harsh.
‘Thank you for entrusting me with your secret…’ She faltered and as he turned away she tried anew. ‘I would also like to say that your affliction of poor eyesight is infinitely more appealing to me than the other option of drunkenness.’
Unexpectedly he turned back and smiled, though as the silence lengthened between them she simply could not think of one other thing to say.
‘My sister-in-law tells me you have discussions on “matters of importance” at your residence.’ He looked exactly at her tonight, amber magnified through the thick spectacles.
‘Put like that, it all seems rather absurd,’ she returned.
‘She tells me that you are a woman of strong opinion and that your eyes are green. Leaf green,’ he amended when she did not say anything. ‘She also tells me that you worry a lot.’
‘She could see that?’
‘In the line on your brow.’
‘An unbecoming feature, then,’ Beatrice said, all her hackles rising. What else had Emerald Wellingham related to him? ‘I am a plain woman, my lord.’
‘Plain is an adjective that has many different interpretations. A carp in a river can be plain to the eyes of one who does not fish, yet vibrant to an angler. A deer in the forest can look insignificant amidst a band of sun-speckled trees and magnificent away from them. Which plain are you?’
‘The type that recognises the truth despite any amount of flowery rhetoric.’
He laughed.
‘Describe yourself to me, then.’
She hesitated. ‘You can see nothing at all?’
‘With my glasses on I know that you are not a large woman. I know too that your hair is long and thick and that you have dimples in your cheeks.’