“I am sorry,” he said quietly.
She said nothing. The door slammed shut.
Theo stood on the road for a long moment, staring at the closed door. Then he turned and walked back to his horse, the cold wind tugging at his coat as he mounted and rode away—alone.
Chapter 4: 1763-1765
1763—Harcourt Place
The dining room of Harcourt House smelled faintly of lemon oil and goose fat, the remnants of the midday meal lingering in the air as the final plates were cleared away. Beth shifted in her chair, smoothing the skirts of her light green muslin and offering her aunt and uncle a small, polite smile as her aunt asked, for the third time that afternoon, how Thomas was doing with his new pony.
“He still refuses to call it anything but ‘Horsey,’” Beth said dryly. “Though I suspect his brother is quietly lobbying for 'Bucephalus.' Thomas always was more serious.”
Her uncle chuckled. “And how is Mr. Bennet?”
“Oh, Theo is as cheerful and dependable as ever. His ankle is better now, thank you for asking.”
“Such a pity his estate business prevented him from coming to the wedding,” remarked Mr. Harcourt.
“Still no contact about his late brother’s family?” Mrs. Harcourt asked, her tone feather-light and falsely concerned.
“No,” Beth said shortly.
A beat of silence passed, filled only by the clink of silver and the distant sound of a servant closing a door.
“Well,” said Mr. Harcourt with forced brightness, “Their loss, to my mind. I always preferred an older son, especially one with some gumption.”
“You only say that now,” Beth replied, lips twitching. “You did not sound quite so enthusiastic when we announced the match.”
“That was before we saw how well he has managed the estate,” he muttered, then raised his voice to add, “And you do seem happy, daughter.”
Beth smiled faintly. “I am. I love him.”
Mrs. Harcourt’s gaze softened, but only slightly. “That is well. Though of course, not every girl has the luxury of marrying for affection.”
Beth’s fingers curled around her teacup.
And there it was. The shift.
Mrs. Harcourt leaned back with a sigh of contentment. “Which is why we are so fortunate with Deborah’s match. Bartemius Fitzwilliam—heir to an earldom. Can you imagine?”
“I am trying,” Beth murmured. “Though the imagination fails somewhat when faced with gossip sheets filled with his debts and escapades.”
Mrs. Harcourt stiffened. “Beth.”
Beth took a deep breath.They no longer have control over my fate. I am a married woman, and I may speak my mind. “No, truly, I would like to understand.”
Beth set her teacup down carefully and continued, “Deb is sweet and kind, but she is not a great beauty. Her dowry is modest. Our family has no political alliances, no powerful uncles, no royal connections. And Bartemius Fitzwilliam is—well, he is not known for his discretion. So, what does he gain from this match?”
Mrs. Harcourt flushed. “You make it sound as though there is something… sinister about his interest in your cousin.”
Beth looked directly at her. “I fear there might be.”
The door opened. Deborah stood on the threshold, cheeks pale, lips trembling.
“I see,” she said quietly. “I thought I heard voices.” Her tone turned brittle. “How fortunate that I arrived just in time to hear my own cousin—whom I have always counted as a sister—pick me apart like some unwanted cut of meat.”
Beth stood at once. “Deb, no, that is not—”
