“Do take some tea, my lady.”
At the housekeeper’s insistence, Beatrice gestured for it to be poured and lifted the cup to her mouth and took a sip.
“Has Lord Edward sent word?” she asked, despite herself. She hated the needy tone to her voice.
“Not as yet, my lady.” A pause. “He was quite certain he’d be home tonight.”
“As you said,” Beatrice replied wearily.
Beatrice took another sip of the tea, allowing the warmth to slip down her throat.
Mrs. Prewett was still there, hands now folding and unfolding themselves.
“That will be all, thank you,” Beatrice said, fixing her gaze upon the teapot in front of her. If she looked at the housekeeper, she feared she might cry.
She heard the housekeeper withdraw, the door closing with a soft click.
The room was quiet, save for the clock’s insistent tick and the faint hiss of the fire. Beatrice sipped again, then stared at the porcelain cup, turning it so the gold rim caught the firelight. She tried to imagine what a woman in her position—beautifully dressed, surrounded by every comfort, married to a man admired by all—ought to feel in this moment. Contentment, surely. Her mother would tell her as much.
But her mother tolerated much and expected little.
When Beatrice met Edward, she’d expected much. Companionship, mutual respect. And, heck, she might as well admit it to herself, maybe, just maybe…love.
Fool.
The hour crept onward. Beatrice rose and moved to the window, pulling aside the heavy brocade curtain. Outside, the street was dark and empty and puddles from yesterday reflected the lamplight in smeared halos. She saw no carriages, no pedestrians, no sign of Edward’s familiar silhouette. The glass fogged as she breathed against it. She pressed her forehead to the cold glass and sighed.
When the clock chimed the hour, Beatrice’s heart jarred against her ribs. It jolted her away from the window.
No. This would not do. History would not repeat itself. Anything was better than sitting around waiting for an errant husband to return. She opened the dining room door, strode to the hallway, her skirts swishing with every determined step andsnatched up her coat—a heavy wool, deep blue in color and not appropriate for her eveningwear.
Just as she was fastening the second button, Mrs. Prewett came upon her. Beatrice bit down on her bottom lip. The woman meant well and she appreciated her kindness but she could do without her attention right now.
“My lady? Are you going out? At this hour?”
Beatrice smiled with every tooth. “Yes, Mrs. Prewett. I find I have an errand that cannot wait.”
“But…his lordship will return at any moment, I am sure! And the late hour—”
“I will be quite well.” She cinched the coat at her waist, the emerald silk pooling out below.
Mrs. Prewett fluttered closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “If it’s not my place, forgive me, but—if you simply wait, my lady—”
“I believe I have spent far too long waiting, I’m afraid, Mrs. Prewett.”
She turned on her heel and crossed the tiled vestibule to open the front door. The cold rushed at her, offering to wipe away all her frustration and anger. Beatrice hastened out into the gloom and strode purposefully down the road. She didn’t hear the front door shut and imagined Mrs. Prewett watching her leave and pondering what to do.
The gates of the cemetery stood open, iron spears gleaming in the faint moonlight. Beatrice moved with the assurance of one who had mapped every sorrowful inch, her gown dragging behind her. If someone saw her, they would think her a mad, grieving widow perhaps. Truth be told, she felt a little mad these past few months. Something was amiss with Edward, yet he declared these late nights nothing more than work. If he imagined he could continue lying to her like this, he was wrong.
As she moved quickly, keeping to the main path, the wind battled her, but she relished the bracing cold, the way it stung her throat and fingers. She pressed on as hairpins lost their grip to the breeze.
By the time she reached her father’s grave, she was trembling with cold and something else. Fury, she reckoned. She couldn’t believe Edward had promised so much and delivered so little. When the idea of marriage had first been suggested to her via her mother, she had not been shocked. Their families were acquainted, but it went beyond that—there was an undeniable connection between her and Edward. She didn’t want to admit it at the time but she was convinced it could spark into something greater.
“Well, Father, I think history might be repeating itself,” Beatrice said. “Do you think the women of our family are cursed?”
She half-expected an answer. When none came, she laughed and knelt to clear the leaves from the base of the monument. Wetness instantly soaked through her skirt but she didn’t care.
“I wish I didn’t love you,” she murmured. “I wish I didn’t feel something for…him,” Beatrice admitted.
