“Please tell Beatrice that I hope she feels well soon. I bid you good day.”
*
Beatrice had seenVan Doren cross the road to the house from her bedchamber window. Oh how differently she looked at him now! He was so handsome, so smartly dressed, he walked with such purpose. He was of good character through and through—why had she always taken all of that for granted?
She had gone down to breakfast early and then retired to her room with a headache. It was not particularly a lie; her head did hurt. Everything hurt. She felt as if she had tumbled down a hill and bruised herself all over.
Beatrice had been locked away alone ever since. She could not hide in her room forever, she knew that. But just one day. One day to stay quiet and resign herself to what would be her gray and lifeless future.
When Van Doren had been let in, she crept to the top of the stairs. She could not face him yet. She would master herself and be able to do it, but not today. Not so soon after being assaulted by her own feelings.
After Tattleton had led him into the drawing room, the butler had been fetched urgently by one of the footmen. There was an emergency in the kitchens, something to do with cats and the larder and Cook with his head in his hands.
As the butler had been called away so swiftly, the drawing room doors had been left open. Beatrice lingered at the top of the stairs to hear what was said.
She rather wished she had not.
There was the usual teasing from her sisters, and how could there not be when they all knew he’d gone to Darden’s masque as a pigeon?
But then had come the question of ladies admiring Van Doren. Miss Mayton had put it in the plainest terms and Van Doren had not denied it. He’d only ordered them all to stop talking about it.
Beatrice suspected Lady Mary knew her business. There would be an engagement coming soon.
It would not be a passionate match, but then Van Doren did not look for that.
How would it be when she went home? She supposed he would not visit half so much and when he did, he would bring his lady.
Was there any polite way to say that she wished Lady Mary to never darken her doors? Probably not. No, of course not. She had already vowed to herself that she would make herself pleasant to the new viscountess. She must just get used to it.
Beatrice rubbed her temples. She wished she had never come to Town. She wished she was back in the country with her sisters, only imagining what coming to Town would be like and being scolded by Van Doren.
Beatrice took a deep breath and straightened her skirts. She must just keep walking forward. She must get through her ball. The season would go on and then it would end and then she could retire to the country. It would be time enough then to tell her father that she would never marry.
She was not so certain she would tell him why, though. She was not certain she would ever tell anybody that.
*
Tattleton regarded Mr.James with his head in his hands in the corner of the kitchen. Charlie, the helpful little mite, was patting the cook’s shoulder sympathetically.
There were trails of sugar icing leading out of the larder and all round the kitchen. There were also four cats who appeared as if they were stepping on hot coals—they leapt and twirled in the air and had wild looks on their faces. Tattleton could not tell if they were enjoying themselves or dying.
“You see what’s happened, Mr. Tattleton,” Mrs. Huffson whispered. “The kittens have got into Mr. James’ sugar icing for the cake meant for Lady Beatrice’s ball.”
The cats sprang and hissed and swatted at the air.
“Have they been poisoned by it?” Mr. Tattleton asked, nearly hoping the answer was yes.
“Oh no, nothing so bad as that,” Mrs. Huffson assured him. “I believe the sugar has given them…an extra spring in their step.”
“That is the last thing they needed!” Tattleton said.
“Aye, I am aware. Take heart, it won’t last forever. Just like children, in an hour or so they’ll run down like clocks and be sleeping peacefully in a corner.”
“An hour?” Mr. James cried from his corner.
Tattleton was at his wit’s end. There was nowhere in the house where peace was to be found.
The preparations for the ball had him run off his feet, Lady Beatrice was ill though the ball was the day after tomorrow, Miss Mayton had taken to dressing herself as a widow, it seemed Lord Van Doren was on the verge of a proposal to a certain Lady Mary while poor Lady Beatrice pined for a nonexistent man who they all speculated would come to the ball though he did not exist, and now Mr. James’ sugar icing was just a distant memory.
