He’d been certain that time would bring with it some modicum of rationality. Surely Beatrice must see that her childish and rather fanciful notions must be put aside.
She was to engage herself in the business of life, and she was no more prepared than a newborn foal.
He laid the blame squarely on Miss Mayton’s shoulders. And perhaps the earl’s too, as he was far too indulgent of all five of his daughters’ wild flights of fancy. And maybe Darden bore part of the blame as well. Their elder brother, the viscount, spent all his time in Town, when he ought to have been at home, straightening out his sisters.
The last time Darden had been home for one of his rare visits, Matthew had even broached the subject. Darden had laughed and said, “Beasaidyou were turning yourself into a stick.”
Was he the only rational person in the vicinity?
What on earth would go on in London? It was one thing for Beatrice to advertise her bizarre ideas in what was a small, tight-knit, and rather forgiving neighborhood.
It was one thing for her to pronounce Mr. Wilton lacking in proper sentiment for failing to dive into a frigid pond to retrieve her handkerchief, though Matthew was all but certain she’d deliberately thrown it in.
It might be laughed off when Beatrice and her sisters all announced that they would never accept a proposal from a gentleman unless he was positively prone on the ground while he asked. Apparently, Hans from Sweden had done so before throwing himself off the side of a mountain.
It might be somewhat understandable that the sisters believed Miss Mayton’s various lunacies over him and his superior judgement. The lady had, after all, acted as their mother, however ill-judged that idea had been in the first place.
But how many times must he inquire how Miss Mayton and Hans managed to get to an Alpine meadow when they had just been in the palace in Stockholm? If Hans was really a count and did a violence to himself, was there not an inquiry? And most of all, there was no such thing as instant love!
Beatrice could not carry on with such antics in Town. Thetonwould make short work of her if she went round telling the story of Hans, or Gregorio the Italian count, or Phillipe the French poet, or the mysterious duke from Transylvania. Or the plethora of other alleged dead loves from Miss Mayton’s past, all of which he was certain were invented.
Why Miss Mayton made up all those stories, he could not be sure. He speculated that she’d been so disappointed by failing to marry that it had somehow dysregulated her mind.
As for why the earl put up with it, that hereallycould not fathom. Lord Westmont was only amused by it and did not seem to comprehend the danger of it.
Society’s eligible gentlemen would not be interested in attempting to reach Beatrice’s unattainable heights. They certainly would not be interested in throwing themselves off the side of an Alpine meadow or stabbing themselves or any of the other ways Miss Mayton’s phantom lotharios had supposedly departed the world.
Oh, naturally, no end of fellows would be drawn to Beatrice. How could they not? She came with a sizable dowry and suitable background. And, if some gentleman were to hold looks above all else, he would not be disappointed there either.
Her hair was amber, the color of autumn honey, her pert little nose charming, and her eyes…those so very dark blue eyes. From afar, her eyes might almost be taken for brown, but when one approached closer one could see the depth of blue like the bottom of the ocean.
The entire situation filled him with irritation. And also, a certain type of dread. Men would flock to her, and then she would talk. She would tell them of her “requirements.” It was then that he was very sure that Beatrice would receive a painful dose of reality.
For all her foibles, he did not wish to see her hurt.
As he did not see how it was to be avoided, he would do what he could to steer her right and then attempt to soften the blow when it came.
If there were anything to hope for, it was that Beatrice would quickly correct her notions and that her experience would serve as a clanging bell of sense to her younger sisters.
*
Beatrice’s father, theEarl of Westmont, was the sort of gentleman she thought of as perennially content. Very little ruffled him one way or the other. His temperament could not have been more different than that of his daughters’ own, who all felt things terribly deeply.
Of course, Beatrice presumed that the earl had at one time been helpless against violent feelings of love. It was hard to imagine, but it was even harder to imagine that her parents’ love for one another had not been one for the ages.
That period of his life, though, was long over. Now, he was content to have the world do what it wished with him and he did not become discomposed unless the house was on fire. As it had only been on fire twice, he was very little out of sorts.
Now, the earl contentedly surveyed his family at table. And their interloping neighbor.
Van Doren was looking particularly well put together this evening. If he would not speak, or scold as he was wont to do, he might be very attractive.
Beatrice had sometimes looked at him as if he were a stranger and admitted that had he been somebody she passed on the road she would find him exceedingly interesting.
When she’d been younger and had not yet developed the sense to resent being scolded all day long, she had been quite bowled over by him.
Those days were long over and, alas, if there were one thing she had not the slightest hope for, it was that Van Doren would give up his scolding.
“Well, Bea, the moment has come,” her father said. “You are to be introduced to society and we will see what sort of young gentleman you end up dragging into my library to say his piece.”
