Chapter 7
When she separated from the taciturn marquess, Beth took refuge in the library.
He seemed to believe she was a virgin and yet it had not greatly helped matters. She had no idea what he thought she had done. A solid education including the unexpurgated classics had left her, she thought, well informed about men and women and what they did together. The reality, however, was like thinking knowledge of a bathtub adequate preparation for a life at sea.
She had not wished to be kissed in hate. What would it be like if she had to share a marriage bed in that spirit?
Tears threatened again, and again she pressed them back ruthlessly. She would not degenerate into a watering pot. She wished desperately that she had someone in whom to confide, someone to turn to for advice. It could not be Miss Mallory, for she would simply tell her to return home and give up all notion of the marriage. And besides, Beth had to suppose that lady's worldly wisdom to be as flawed as her own.
The duchess was the only married woman available to her, and she could not bring herself to lay the whole sordid mess before the marquess's mother.
Her only choice seemed to be to behave with such impeccable good breeding that the marquess would realize she could not be the kind of monster he imagined.
Who on earth were these men who were supposed to have handled her? With a choke of laughter Beth thought of her beaux, such as they had been.
Mr. Rutherford, the curate, who had blushed fiercely when forced one day to untangle her skirt from a rose bush; Mr. Grainger, the philosopher, who had once kissed her on the lips then apologized profusely for the presumption and fled; Dr. Carnarvon, who cared for the pupils at Miss Mallory's. The good doctor had hovered about her for a year before saying that he was quite unworthy of her because of his earthy desires. He had then married a sensible widow.
She tried to imagine any of those men treating her as the marquess had done—kissing her with an open mouth, touching her breast. That was not how a man touched a respectable woman. Perhaps she should write to the "men in her life" and ask for character references.
Then an illustration popped into her mind—a picture from one of Miss Mallory's more outré books, one of the ones kept locked from the pupils. It was of Venus and Mars. Venus was lying half-naked in the lap of Mars who had one of his hands on her naked breast.
Good God! Did the marquess think she had done that? With Mr. Rutherford? Beth leapt to her feet, her hands pressed to flaming cheeks. How could she ever face him again? Surely such things only occurred in pagan times!
It was at that moment that the duchess walked in. "I knew I would find you here, my dear—" She halted, puzzled to see Beth standing in the middle of the room. "Is anything the matter, Elizabeth?"
Beth knew an outright denial would not be believed and so she said, "Just a little crise de nerfs, that's all, Your Grace."
"I hope it was nothing Lucien did," said the duchess, coming closer. Beth knew she had just turned even redder. "He is fundamentally a good man, but he has enough of his father in him to be difficult at times."
Startled at this casual reference to the marquess's parentage, Beth could only say, "Oh."
The duchess smiled her sweet smile which always had a dimming overlay of sadness. "It needn't be a forbidden subject between us. St. Briac was dashing but totally unreliable. He was a mess of fiery emotions, a constant explosion of impulses. I could have married him, you know. He had property, and though a poor prospect for one such as I, was not totally ineligible. He asked for my hand, but I would not marry him. He was too... explosive."
So that was where the marquess got his temper. "And yet I am to marry his son," said Beth.
"Lucien is not very like him, I assure you, Elizabeth. He is a lot like me and I, as you can see, am a very practical woman. He also has modeled himself a great deal on the duke, who is everything that St. Briac was not."
Beth had suspected there was a deep love between the duke and duchess, hidden somehow by the formality of their lives. She saw it clearly now as the duchess spoke admiringly of her husband. But why then did they live as they did? She tried to imagine the duke and duchess.... Hastily she controlled her mind.
The duchess said again, "But as Lucien has that touch of wildness and a temper, I wondered if he had upset you."
"It is only my situation, Your Grace, which disturbs me. It would be the same with any man." Even as she said it, Beth knew that was not true. The marquess had a particular genius for setting her on edge.
The duchess, the practical woman, shrugged. "C'est la vie. And I am afraid I must disturb you more. There will be callers and there is the ball to consider. I am afraid, my dear, if you do not wish to be a quiz, you are going to have to allow us to procure you new clothes. Lucien said you would agree to this."
Beth looked down at her simple yellow round gown. She had thought such gowns ubiquitous and unremarkable.
"Yes, I know," said the duchess with a deprecating smile, "But it looks homemade, my dear. We are not going to try to pretend to anyone that you bring a fortune, but they are bound to wonder why we don't dress you."
"Very well," sighed Beth. She had, after all, given her word to the marquess. "But I must have some say in my clothes."
"But of course," said the duchess happily. "Now come along."
Beth had already discovered that the duchess could move with great speed, and she was almost running as she kept up with the older woman on the way to her rooms. A footman was sent to find the head seamstress.
"Mrs. Butler is well able to make a stylish plain gown and will take your measurements. We will send a muslin toile to London and have a ball gown made for you. In fact," she said with a shrewd glance at Beth, "I think I will send Lucien. It will get him out of the way and give him some light relief. He can execute a number of necessary commissions far better than a servant. We must look at the periodicals."
Another footman was sent off to bring these from the duchess's suite.
"We must do something about jewels, too," said the duchess. "Lucien will buy you some, but there are pieces among the family jewels which you should have." Another footman went hurrying on his way.
In Beth's room they went straight into the dressing room.
"You had best slip out of your gown, my dear," the duchess said briskly. Beth did as she was told and put on her wrap.
"Underclothes," said the duchess, as if making a mental list. "Silk nightdresses." Beth felt her cheeks heat up again. "Do you wish us to buy you a full wardrobe now or would you rather purchase it for yourself when you are married?"
"Does it make any difference?" asked Beth, feeling like someone who has moved one small stone and caused a landslide.
"It depends on where you are to honeymoon and how soon you intend to take up fashionable life."
"I don't know."
"Ask Lucien," said the duchess. Beth was not sure if it was an instruction or another mental note.
By then the summonses were having effect. A tall gaunt woman, followed by a little maid carrying a basket and a selection of swatches, proved to be the seamstress. She swiftly took measurements of all parts of Beth's body as the duchess chattered on about types of gowns.
"Round gowns," she said. "Of the simplest lines, I think. You agree, Elizabeth?" Before Beth had time to respond, she went on. "Muslin. Let me see. This cream jaconet is lovely, isn't it? Or this figured lawn...."
Beth gave up and allowed the duchess to choose three gowns to be made quickly—one of figured lawn, one of jaconet muslin sprigged with green, and one of plain cambric. She also gave orders for the beginning of a trousseau of personal garments, all to be monogrammed.
The dressmaker left, and Beth resumed her maligned homemade gown. She was immediately drawn over to look through the fashion magazines with the duchess. She was prepared to protest if she thought the choices unsuitable, but otherwise she was resigned to letting the duchess make them. What did she know of such silly matters?
In a moment, it seemed, six grand, and surely expensive, outfits had been selected to be ordered from London. "And a habit," said the duchess firmly. "And boots."
Next, the beleaguered Beth had a small fortune of jewelry spread casually on the table before her—silver, gold, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, pearls. She could not help her fingers going out to touch a beautiful diamond bracelet that shot fire in the light of the sun, and a string of softly glowing pearls. She pulled her hand back. Truly she was being seduced, and not with kisses. She resolutely refused to accept anything except the string of pearls, traditional ornament of a gently bred young woman, a set of amber baubles which did not look expensive, and, under pressure, some diamonds. She chose a delicate parure as being the least overwhelming.
"It is very pretty," said the duchess doubtfully, fingering the diamonds, "but the stones are small. Will you not take this one?" she asked, opening a case to show a magnificent set in which huge diamonds flashed blades of rainbow colors.
Beth shrank away. What had Beth Armitage to do with a thing like that? "No, Your Grace. Truly. I much prefer the other."
"As you wish, my dear," the duchess said with her typical Gallic shrug.
* * *
Beth could not imagine the hours which must have been worked in the Belcraven sewing rooms, but one of her new gowns, the green sprig, was ready the next day when the first callers came. It was a very simple gown, gathered with drawstrings at the waist and only ornamented by a green silk sash, and yet it was much superior to her own creations. The duchess inspected her and was pleased. She tried to prevent Beth from wearing one of her caps but failed. In some way the caps had become a symbol for Beth and she would not give them up.
The guests proved to be close neighbors, a Lady Frogmorton and her daughters, Lucy and Diane. They were accompanied by a friend, Miss Phoebe Swinnamer, a young lady of quite remarkable beauty. Of which, thought Beth, she was far too aware. Still, she had to admit that it would be hard for the possessor to ignore a perfect oval face, translucent skin, big blue eyes, and thick, glossy, mahogany, waving hair.
There was something disturbing about the young lady, however—about the way she looked at Beth and the marquess, and the way her friends looked at her. It didn't take genius to see that Miss Swinnamer wished to be in Beth's position. It was clear that Lucy Frogmorton also was envious. Beth then supposed that most of the young ladies in England shared that feeling.
For the first time she thought how ludicrous it was that fate had delivered this supposed honor to one of the few sane women who did not want it.
Beth was still puzzling over Phoebe Swinnamer when the young lady managed to snatch a seat beside her. Beth realized that the duchess had been delicately attempting to prevent just such an occurrence.
"Do you live in Berkshire, Miss Swinnamer?" Beth asked politely. After years of teaching, jealous young minxes did not frighten her.
"Oh no," said Phoebe with a slight smile which did not reach her eyes. "My home is in Sussex, but we spend a great deal of time in London."
"Then you must enjoy it. I have rarely visited the capital."
"It is my duty," said Phoebe. "I am my parents' heiress. I must make a good match."
Beth smiled. "I am sure with your beauty and fortune, the choice must be entirely yours, Miss Swinnamer."
There was the slightest stiffening of Phoebe's beautiful features, though it was clear she never let the stronger emotions disturb them. "It is kind of you to say so, Miss Armitage." She looked around. "Belcraven is very beautiful, is it not? I spent the Christmas here."
Beth now understood that Phoebe had been a serious contender for the marquess's hand. Were they in fact disappointed lovers? Selfishly, it had never occurred to her that he might have had to give up a chosen partner to make this match. Beth glanced over at him, but he was relaxed in friendly talk with the Frogmortons and there was nothing to learn.
She looked back and saw Phoebe had noted that look with satisfaction. Beth took hold of her wits. The little cat was out to make trouble. She doubtless had faint hopes of somehow spoiling the present arrangement and reviving her chances. Beth knew there was no possibility of that and had no mind to have her life made more difficult by the girl.
"Personally," she said, "I prefer a quiet family Christmas."
"And where does your family live?" asked Phoebe, probing for a weakness.
"I lived with my aunt in Cheltenham," countered Beth. "Are your parents here with you, Miss Swinnamer?"
"No, my mother is in Bath while my father lingers in Melton. I'm surprised," she drawled, with a somehow familiar look at the marquess, "Arden is not still there. He adores hunting in the Shires."
"The power of love," said Beth sweetly. "I was not in such a mighty hurry to be wed, I assure you, Miss Swinnamer. But the marquess was positively insistent."
Phoebe's charming, shapely nose became decidedly pinched.
Before she could rally, the duchess was there, drawing Beth away. "You must come and talk to Lady Frogmorton, my dear." As soon as they were out of earshot, she said, "I do hope the girl did not offend you, Elizabeth."
"Of course not," Beth said. "I'm well used to young misses. But am I correct in thinking there was an attachment between her and the marquess?"
"Not an attachment," the duchess said quickly. "She did seem to have a great deal to offer, and Lucien considered her—partly at my urging, I confess. I do not think he was ever particularly drawn to her. In fact," she admitted with a rueful twinkle, "he was called away shortly after Christmas on some mysterious urgent business, much to poor Phoebe's annoyance."
Beth shared the amusement, relieved to think her future husband wasn't nursing a broken heart. They had enough trouble without that.
She sat down to gossip with Lady Frogmorton, a kindly woman who said everything that was proper. Beth had been right about the jealousy of the daughters, however. Lucy, in particular, being the elder and sharply pretty, with vivid dark-haired, cherry-lipped looks, eyed Beth with disbelief. Beth supposed she would just have to become accustomed to this reaction.
When Lucien came to join them she was grateful for the way he behaved. There was no crude outward show of fondness, of course, but in the way he stood beside her and the tone of his voice he clearly convinced the visitors that, strange though it was, this mousy and rather old woman had stolen his heart.
Beth recognized, however, that this salve to her pride was bought at cost to her heart. When he acted so proficiently it was all too easy to fall under the spell, to forget this was a pact imposed ruthlessly and supported by threats of violence.
She watched carefully when he exchanged pleasantries with Phoebe Swinnamer. Beth couldn't hear the words, but his attitude was friendly and brotherly. In as far as she was capable of it, Miss Swinnamer looked cross, and Beth took unkind satisfaction from that. It was unfortunate but human to dislike a young woman who was so set up in her own opinion and who clearly regarded Beth as something lower than an earthworm.
The next day brought the vicar and his wife in the company of Sir George Matlock, the local squire, and Lady Matlock. They, too, Beth thought, looked at her with a trace of puzzlement, but accepted matters, doubtless due to the marquess's excellent acting. They were also, however, inclined to gush. Beth found it strange to be looked up to as a member of the ducal family when she still felt like Beth Armitage the schoolmistress.
She feared it would be much more of the same at the upcoming ball. Beth helped the duchess and Mrs. Sysonby to address the hundred invitations.
"I confess," she remarked as she dipped her pen into the ink well again, "this seems a great many invitations for a country ball."
"Oh, but this is a small affair," said the duchess. "As there will be other events in London we are only asking the local people and at least half will have to decline." She tidied one stack with deft fingers. "Some men are still in the Shires. Women are visiting family. Some have already gone up to Town. But, even so, they would be affronted if we failed to send an invitation."
This was no relief to Beth. She could still apparently expect over thirty families to come and gawk. She wished she was being sent an invitation, for then she could refuse.
She supposed the marquess, too, wished he could escape the event. He at least escaped to London to execute the duchess's commissions. Before he left he sought out Beth in the library.
"I felt for form's sake I should take a tender farewell of you," he said dryly.
"Consider it taken," she responded in the same manner. She would never show weakness before him again.
That didn't prevent a tremor of nervousness when he walked toward her window seat. He brought to mind a big cat stalking its prey and she was trapped in the deep embrasure. She began to fear he might break his promise and assault her, but he merely removed her book from her lax fingers and glanced at the title.
"Sallust?" he noted in surprise. "You read Latin?"
How typical that he should think it remarkable. "Yes," she said coldly, "I read Latin. It isn't always easy, but it is good exercise for the mind...." Her voice trailed off because he had sat beside her and taken her hand. Quite gently. There was no anger on his face, only bemusement.
"I find you impossible to understand, Elizabeth," he said thoughtfully. "You read Latin and refuse a fortune in jewels. And yet you claim to be—"
"I explained that," Beth interrupted angrily, dragging her fingers from his hold.
He shook his head and put the book, open, in her hands again. "Read me a passage and translate it."
With a grunt of anger Beth slammed the book closed. "Putting me to the test again?" She waved the tome in his face. "Really, my lord. Do you think knowledge of Latin a proof of virtue? What then of the whole of the male aristocracy?"
Disarmingly, he laughed. "Ah, but it's the Greek that does us in."
He gently rescued the book and let it fall open again. He smiled as he read, "'Ita in maxima fortuna minima licentia est.' I seem to remember at Harrow I didn't believe that high station limited freedom. Perhaps old Gaius Salustius had something after all." He closed the book and placed it on the seat. "Can we possibly, do you think, cry quarter? This is all going to drive me mad. If you are willing to behave like a lady, the least I can do is act the gentleman. I promise never to refer to our unfortunate conversations again."
Beth rose to her feet, partly in a simple need to move away from him. There was something disturbing in his mere proximity, especially when he was in a mellow mood. "That would be an improvement," she responded. "But can you forget them?"
"I can try," he replied. "At least until you give me further reason to doubt you."
An angry retort rose to her lips, but Beth suppressed it. She, too, found it unbearable to live in a state of war. She studied him and decided he was completely honest. "Truce then," she said, holding out her hand.
He took it and kissed her fingers formally. "Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. Truce, Elizabeth."
With that he turned and quietly left. Beth had to work out a translation of his words. Something like, "Someday it may be pleasant to remember this." Why was she disconcerted to discover him well-educated? He had doubtless spent most of his youth declining Latin and translating Cicero. But was she not even to be able to retain a sense of superiority as defense?
With one hand covering the spot on the other where he had placed that soft kiss, Beth dealt with conflicting feelings. For the first time they had met in honesty and reached an agreement. Perhaps there was some hope of building a relationship of respect.
On the other hand she was aware of a dangerous response within herself to his kindness and intelligence. Her anger and disdain had formed a bulwark. Without it she feared the marquess could steal her heart as easily as plucking a flower from a stem, and probably as meaninglessly.
It might perhaps have been safer to continue the war.
More than ever she needed an adviser. She suddenly remembered she had a father. The duke was the originator of all her troubles. Why then should he not bear the burden of them?
But how was it to be accomplished? They met at dinner and for part of the evening but rarely otherwise. Send one of the footmen? With a note or a verbal message? She was tempted to give up, but the project assumed the nature of a challenge, an opportunity to prove to herself that she could cope in the structured world of Belcraven. A little nervously she rang the bell. A footman quickly came in. "Miss Armitage?"
"I wish to speak to the duke, Thomas," said Beth.
"He is usually with his secretary at this time of day, miss. Do you wish me to enquire?"
"Yes, please," said Beth, and when the man had gone she sank down into a chair with relief and a small glow of triumph. It was just a matter of playing the game by the rules.
In a little while she was bowed into the duke's study by Mr. Westall, who discreetly took himself elsewhere.
"Yes, Elizabeth?" asked the duke, removing his spectacles and rubbing the groove they had left in the bridge of his nose.
Now the moment was upon her, Beth was not at all sure what she wished to say. "You are my father," she said at last. "It seemed I might be able to talk to you, but now I am not sure."
His austere features softened slightly. "I would like to think that was true. I have watched and admired your handling of this situation. You may think it would have been easier to avoid this time at Belcraven, Elizabeth, to have lived more quietly before your marriage, but that would have been a cruel type of kindness. You are learning to cope."
"I can cope, I believe, with the pomp. I am not sure I can cope with the marquess."
The duke's lips tightened. "What has he done?"
"Nothing," said Beth hastily. She had no wish to cause further dissension in this unhappy family. "I simply cannot decide how to handle him."
The duke relaxed and smiled a little. "I'm afraid you have come to the wrong person for advice on that, my dear. I am not sure how to handle him either. I manage, because I long ago decided what I wanted from him—that he grow up with a well-educated mind, a healthy body, and the manners of a gentleman. I have steered him in that direction with whatever force was necessary at the time. What do you want from him?"
Beth raised her hands helplessly and let them fall. "I don't know."
"What do you want from him that you do not currently receive?"
Beth shook her head. These questions did not help. "I am so lonely," she said at last.
He sighed. "Ah, loneliness...." He looked at her. "Perhaps what you want from him, my dear, is friendship. The heir to a dukedom is not overly endowed with true friends. If you offer Arden simple companionship, I do not think he would reject it."
Beth had known friendship in her younger years, but in the course of time her friends had left the school to take up different kinds of lives. Beth knew the duke was correct. She did want a friend, and friendship in marriage had always been her ideal. But her rash lies has made such a treasure impossible between herself and the marquess.
To share secret feelings, to listen to anxieties, to know the other person will immediately understand—that all depended on trust.
"I cannot imagine it," she said bleakly.
The duke rose and paced the room. "I am perplexed. I am not blind: I have seen the constraint between the two of you. It seems to me that the marquess could charm any woman, but you are not charmed. It seems to me that two people of sense could find common ground upon which to build and yet you appear to be achieving nothing. Is your future happiness not worth some effort?"
Beth met his look. "We are trying. We keep finding ourselves setting stones in quicksand."
After a frowning study of her, the duke sighed and looked away with a shake of his head. "When we all move to London you will make friends of your own. These recent days have not been typical of your future life. As you have seen," he said dryly, "people such as we do not need to live in one another's pockets. Once you are married, there is no need for you and Arden to see much of each other. Or if you do, it will mostly be in company."
Beth knew with a pang this was not what she wanted. Then she nervously considered the private moments. "If I could be more at ease with him...." She could not finish the sentence.
Perhaps it was her rising color which enabled the duke to read her mind. "You are concerned about the intimacies of marriage, Elizabeth. It is only to be expected. I can merely say this, my dear. I have absolute trust in Arden's ability to handle a marriage bed with courtesy and kindness."
But, despite their truce, would the marquess feel he needed to handle the marriage bed so carefully? And even so, no matter how it was handled, it was going to be a gross invasion by a man who had no desire for the business at all.
Beth looked up at the duke and said, "You are my father." She had not the slightest idea what she intended by it.
"Yes. And I love you, Elizabeth, as I did not expect to when this started." The genuine concern on his face, however, was wiped away. "I will cherish you as best I can," he said in his usual manner, "but I will not give up my plan."
Beth stood and said desperately, "I wish it were all done!"
The duke walked over and took her hand. "It will soon begin, Elizabeth. The ending, of course, is death."
Beth had only looked ahead to the wedding. Now her life stretched before her, intimately entangled with a stranger, watching every word and treading among quicksands. She stared at the duke for a moment, then wrenched her hand from his and ran out of the room.
Catching the interested look in the eye of a footman, she pulled herself together. Oh, how she hated the fishbowl life of Belcraven. She forced herself to walk composedly to her room, where she found her cloak, then slipped out of a side entrance to march mindlessly along the many paths of the grounds.
"Till death us do part." Soon she would have to say those words to the marquess, and it was true. Once there were children they would be entangled forever. Even if she were to flee him, the knowledge of the children would always be there.
There was no going back in life.
Her life had been so unchanging before that she had never realized the simple truth, though she had read it in Lucretius. "Whenever a thing changes and quits its proper limits, this change is at once the death of that which was before."
Quietly in the spring garden, Beth mourned her previous life.