Once she confirmed that the staff had things well underway, Beatrice returned to her bedchamber. Today was Thursday, and she’d promised to meet Lark in the park while Lady Barrington and her daughter made their weekly promenade.
She removed the apron from her day dress, dislodged a few lingering bits of straw from her hair, and added a spencer before heading out.
The night before, when Beatrice had slipped back into the dining room and taken the seat opposite her, Lark had immediately given her a look. One that conveyed multiple things at once: concern, chastisement, along with the much more specific I know something happened. You will tell me about it. Later.
It was the look of someone who knew her far too well, and there were not many people who did.
Once, there had been Grand mère.
Beatrice had loved her mother, of course. But it had been her mother’s mother who had known the shape of her heart best. Grand mère, with her clever blue eyes and her soft French endearments, who had understood the private miseries Beatrice could not bring herself to name: how fiercely she missed her father and brother, how lonely she felt in rooms full of relations, even how unsettling it had been to wake one morning and discover her body had crossed some invisible threshold without asking her permission.
Leaving France at fifteen had meant leaving more than grandparents, cousins, aunts, and the easy warmth of the place she had thought would always be home.
It had meant leaving the one person in the world who had made Beatrice feel entirely understood.
She had not expected to find that again.
And yet, oddly enough, Lark had been the unexpected silver lining in her brother’s arranged marriage—one Beatrice could no longer imagine her life without.
“I wasn’t sure you would come today!” Lark called from the bench she’d claimed beneath the shade of one of the larger trees.
She sat a careful distance from Lady Theodosia and her mother, who were engaged with two formidable grand dames whose names Beatrice could not reliably recall.
“It is too fine a morning to waste indoors,” Beatrice replied, crossing the grass more quickly than decorum recommended.
She reached Lark, slightly breathless, and dropped onto the bench beside her.
“And besides,” she added, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “There have been some… developments.”
Lark’s brows shot up.
“Oh dear,” she said. “And I was so enjoying the tranquility.”
“Lord Hawkins called early this morning,” Beatrice said, without further preamble. “He has offered to instruct me in the more physical aspects of self-preservation. We’re to begin this afternoon.”
Lark blinked. “What do you mean, physical aspects of…?”
“Sparring,” Beatrice supplied.
“With Lord Hawkins.”
“Yes.”
“This afternoon.”
“Yes.”
Lark stared at her for one silent moment. Then her eyes narrowed. “Beatrice. What, precisely, happened last night?”
“Well, Mr. Hatherleigh… there was a bit of an… altercation.”
Leaving out the more alarming particulars, Beatrice eventually managed to explain how she had misjudged the degree of obstinance she might encounter. She omitted the alarming parts, along with the dreadful realization that Lark had been right to worry, and instead skipped to Lord Hawkins’ involvement.
Lark, having resided under the same roof for more than two years, required no further elaboration.
“And what of Mr. Hatherleigh now?” Lark asked quietly, concern plain in her eyes.
“Removed from London,” Beatrice said, attempting to sound matter-of-fact. “And strongly encouraged not to return. Anyway,” she continued briskly, “he should no longer present a danger. Which allows me to redirect my attention toward other gentlemen whose conduct bears observation.”
