They had composed all sorts of ambitious plans for their wedding trip to the city, and absolutely none of it had been attained. They had not gone to the theater or gambled or shopped for art. They had not toured the museums, or even got themselves on a gondola to see the sights.
Rather, they lounged in their rented palazzo on the Grand Canal, breakfasting on a terrace and watching the boats glide by and then attempting to go out but never getting there.
It was as if a lifetime of tension and attraction had burst forth between them and they were both helpless in the face of it.
Lynette and Marcus did their very best to ignore what was in front of them. As they had both come on the trip to dress the viscount and his viscountess, they found they had far more time on their hands than they would have anticipated.
Beatrice had not the first idea of how they were to account for themselves when they returned home. What should they say of Venice?Oh,Venice? Did I mention we had a lovely set of rooms?
It was one such sunny morning in the city, with the warm breezes blowing Beatrice’s already mussed hair even more so. The housekeeper looking after them had laid out a coffee service and a plate of pastries brought in from Caffè Florian on the terrace’s small mosaic table. The poor lady seemed well aware of their habits and looking very much as if she’d rathernotbe aware of them.
“Rosalind’s season is next year,” Beatrice said, pouring the strong coffee into small cups. “I am very much hoping Conbatten is disappointed, and it all goes very smoothly.”
“We shall see,” Matthew said, his bare foot rubbing her leg beneath her dressing gown. “It might very well depend on whether or not Rosalind still believes in Count Tulerstein, Gregorio, and the Transylvanian fellow, among others.”
Beatrice smiled. “Perhaps my aunt has exaggerated some facts about her romantic encounters on the continent, but certainly most of it must be true.”
“Must it?” Matthew asked.
“I hope so,” Beatrice said, laughing. “Miss Mayton has put romance in my heart and you will not get it out again.”
“Nor do I wish to,” he said, taking Beatrice’s hand. “Somehow, it’s been put into mine too.”
“It is a nice thought, is it not?” Beatrice asked. “That we can go forward as romantic lunatics forevermore?”
“Oddly, it is.”
Beatrice raised her cup of coffee. “Here is to my aunt, and all her dead gentlemen.”
Matthew raised his own. “To Miss Mayton, the spinster in widow’s weeds. Now, we ought to finish our breakfast and go out.”
“Oh, yes, we really ought to go out.”
“Though, I doubt we will go out.”
“I believe you may be right.”
*
Unbeknownst to anyof the Benningtons, their three-day caravan to London had left an impression on at least one person outside of their own entourage. Miss Jane Austen had written an account of their meeting to her sister Cassandra shortly after it had occurred at The Angel in Basingstoke.
What an amusing evening we had two nights past. A lady named Miss Mayton told us a harrowing story, all of which I am certain was invented and all of which I will relay when next we meet. I will only say this, while it was poor Gregorio accused of pride, I rather think the moniker better suited to a particular Lord Van Doren at the table, who appeared to be at once disdainful of, and in love with, Lady Beatrice Bennington.
In any case, Gregorio’s ridiculous story (and I cannot believe it to be true) has inspired me to some changes to First Impressions and so I must at least thank the Benningtons for that. I can never, I admit, thank them for Ode to a Farmer’s Fence or The Terrible Goings-On of Montclair Castle. Though, on second thought, the terrible goings-on in that castle may prove instructive to my own efforts at novel writing, by way of what not to do.
What a delightfully absurd family the Benningtons are, I do wonder how they will make out in London. I am ashamed to admit that I will never know, as they did offer to correspond, but I claimed I was emigrating to America.
Now, I have frittered away much paper in avoiding why I have really written. I must acquaint you with a more serious matter, or perhaps not so serious once I have distance from it. I did a rather ghastly thing. I accepted Mr. Bigg-Wither and then cried all night and called it off the following morning. That, as you can imagine, is prompting my early departure from this house. I accepted him out of sense and then rejected him out of sensibility and so now you know your sister is an unreliable and flighty creature.
While Miss Austen’s sister no doubt looked forward to hearing of the Benningtons and the unlucky Gregorio, and perhaps shuddered to hear of Mr. Bigg-Wither, Beatrice and Matthew made their way back to Somerset.
Beatrice did feel some trepidation upon taking on the mantle of mistress and managing a household. It was one thing for Van Doren to claim that he did not care if she could add up two farthings together, and another for him to see the result of it.
Fortunately, Faversham Hall’s housekeeper, Mrs. Wells, had been thoroughly briefed by the viscount on what she might expect. Mrs. Wells was fully prepared to allow Beatrice to take the reins as much or as little as she liked.
It would turn out that this was never a very steady thing. There were times Beatrice found the household practicalities a bore and Mrs. Wells ran the place on her own. There were other times, though, when Beatrice threw herself into it.
Each time she was with child, her mind turned inward to the house and its doings—the outside world became nothing to her. Van Doren claimed she was a dove feathering her nest and that was precisely how she felt at such moments.
